


Walk the Line

by TheWordsInMyHead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: All the delinquents - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Protective Clarke Griffin, Angst, Blake sibling bonding, But like he is the most non-criminal criminal ever, Dysfunctional families too, F/M, Found Family, Protective Bellamy Blake, Secondary character deaths, They all fucked up but they are trying and that's what matters, They protect each other and it's beautiful, because it's bellarke, because it's the 100, criminal!bellamy, doctor!clarke, everyone is, he's just doing his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 109,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWordsInMyHead/pseuds/TheWordsInMyHead
Summary: Bellamy had accepted his lot in life; his role was to take care of his sister, his crew, provide for them and keep them safe. He does what has to be done with no regrets until the day that Clarke Griffin walks into his life, looking at him like he’s worth more than he would have ever bargained for.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 66
Kudos: 181





	1. The shine of it has caught my eye

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! You’re here, this is existing! At least it is for me, but hopefully for you too. I’m going to ramble on for a bit (and when I say a bit I really mean ages) so if you don’t care to listen to that, just scroll right on past what I presume will be a wall of text and I hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> If you're still here, I’ve got some amazing people to thank, a fully ridiculous origin story for this fic and a few gerale notes on what this is going to be. 
> 
> Around six months ago, [Meyers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meyers1020/pseuds/Meyers1020/works) (if you don’t know who she is, do yourself a favor after you finish this chapter and click the link, we’ve co written a couple of stories together what I happen to think are pretty great and she has a oneshot that just gives me all the fully happy feelings) sent me a song and said, this is totally Bellamy, I need a fic. 
> 
> I gave her a resounding no. I already had a bunch of projects I was working on and wasn’t about to add another one. 
> 
> That night I wrote a couple thousand words of what I thought would be a short oneshot with her song. A few days later it was approaching 5k and I knew it wasn’t going to be short, but it could still be a oneshot, right? Right?
> 
> Wrong. I still laugh about how delusional I was then. It went from 5k to 10k, 20k to 40k, 60k and well, you get the point. It turned into a monster, but it’s a monster that I love so thank you, Meyers for getting me to write things I’m not supposed to be working on; this wouldn’t exist without you. 
> 
> While this wouldn’t exist without Meyers, it sure as hell wouldn’t be as good as it is with a few other special people. Thank you Danielle, Jane, and Ella for all the editing, plotting and excitement. Your energy for this story is what kept me writing more times than I can count. (I really can’t stress how out of control this project got lol). 
> 
> I’m not going to tell you all how long it is exactly because I feel like that gives something away sometimes, but it’s almost done. I think I have two chapters left to write and that’s it so it WILL 100% be completed. I worry about that when starting WIPs, anyone else? I get attached. Not that ending is everything. Exibit A: a stupid show with an asshole creator and a final seaon which will be ripped from the history books. 
> 
> Side note: this story get dark at times, but know that I would __never__ do that to you. Also Meyers loves happy endings and since she has a reasonably good chance of tracking me down to kill me if I didn’t give them to her, I would never risk it.
> 
> Anyways, back to fic land where stories get happy endings and creators aren’t petty assholes (I’m still salty, I will always be salty). This is broken down into three ‘acts’ (because yes, I’m that extra, sorry, but also not). Each with their own song acting as a sort of over all them while the lyrics give the chapters their titles. 
> 
> So without further ado, here we go!
> 
> # Part 1: [Vindicated](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwLzuOMpkFw)

It all happened so fast; one minute, it was nothing more than the average drug deal, then the next, bullets were flying and there were too many people for Bellamy to protect all at once. Really, he should count himself lucky that Atom was the only one to be injured and by a non-fatal shot at that. With the feeling of his blood still warm and sticky on his fingers, though, and Raven’s frantic curses as she drove them to the little clinic they’d seen on the way in still loud in his ears, he doesn’t feel lucky at all. 

“Come here, let me fix that,” the doctor tells him, already moving towards the cupboards that line the wall to grab the necessary equipment. At least, he thinks she’s a doctor, she probably is if her comfortability with stitches is anything to go by; there wasn’t much time to get her qualifications as they rushed at the rapidly bleeding Atom through the door. 

Bellamy looks towards Atom now, lying asleep on the table, the bullet wound in his shoulder neatly patched, and wonders how shitty a person it would make him if he just left. He told the others to get lost as soon as they’d made it inside, not wanting any of them around if this went south and the cops were called, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the young boy when Atom grabbed onto his hand and begged him to help. 

He still can’t, if his lingering is any indication, even though he probably should still. At least, he’s mostly confident now that she’s not looking to bust them. In his experience, doctors don’t wait to make sure you’re comfortable before calling in reinforcements. His focus shifts back to the doctor, he’s decided that’s who she is now. She's in front of the door as though she’d guessed his thoughts. _Guess leaving is not an option anymore._

“I’m fine,” he tells her gruffly, crossing his arms and then biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a groan when the movement tugs at the gash across his chest.

“You’re bleeding,” she deadpans, staring pointedly as the patch of red oozing through his shirt. 

“It’s fine,” he repeats, lowering his voice into the tone that blatantly says _let it go_. He’d be concerned, but he’s dealt with enough injuries at this point to know that the blood loss isn’t critical, and the placement is more annoying than harmful. 

“Okay, fine,” she says with a huff, crossing her arms to match his pose, “you’re not going to die from it, but I need to disinfect it. And it probably needs stitches.” 

She waits expectantly for him to move, and when he doesn’t, she lets out a huff of exasperation, “Take your shirt off.” 

He waits for another moment, partly to enjoy the flash in her eyes, partly to weigh his options, and then starts to pull his shirt over his head, wincing only slightly when the dried blood makes it stick to the sensitive skin. “Are you always this bossy?” 

“Yes,” she tells him with no remorse, stepping closer to examine the wound, “special doctor privileges.” 

He smirks down at her while she prods at his muscular chest, the kind of smirk that normally sends men and women alike into a fluster. “The kind of privileges that require me to take my shirt off?” 

She glances up at him after a moment with a scowl on her face, a cute look, he'll admit, before turning back to her work without a word. He lets a self-satisfied grin slide on to his face, but she quickly removes it with a forceful jab of her finger.

“Hey!” he exclaims, forgetting himself for a moment. 

“What?” she responds, innocently looking up at him again, “I thought you were fine.” 

He grumbles under his breath but says nothing, and she goes back to her work. When he looks down a few minutes later, she’s got her own self-satisfied smirk on her face. 

She wasn’t what he expected to find when they rushed into this out of the way clinic. With her pretty blond hair and crisp lab coat, she looks more like she belongs in one of the fancy, up-town private hospitals. Hours later and her skills are also undeniable, making her position here all the more confusing. She'd gotten her hands onto Atom, helping him to stem the blood flow without a second of hesitation, seemingly comfortable and confident with such a wound. Somehow, she’d even managed to calm the patient down with soft words that Bellamy just couldn’t find. 

And now she’s helping him, demanding to help him, with no reservations. The picture doesn’t make sense, he can’t help but think, as he watches her diligently clean the dried blood off of him with a care that he knows he doesn’t deserve, 

She’s too good for this. Too good for this rundown building. Too good to be cleaning the gash he got fighting over drugs with as much care as she is.

She finishes up, smoothing some tape down to secure the bandage and then steps back, but he stops her, gently grabbing her wrist. “What’s your name?” 

He feels a ridiculous urge to kiss her as she blinks up at him in confusion, eyes bright and blue, pink lips slightly open in a perfect pout, but then her confusion falls away with a quiet laugh and his impulse along with it. Or at least that’s what he tells himself as she starts to speak. 

“Oh, we never did that, did we? I’m Clarke.” 

She offers her hand to shake, which he accepts after a moment of hesitation. It doesn’t escape his notice that she uses her first name. Not Dr. Something, not Mrs. Something, just Clarke; short, sweet and personal. “Thank you, Clarke.” 

Tipping her head in acknowledgment, she moves away from him and starts putting supplies away. He watches her from his spot by the door, mesmerized by her movements, and lost in thought. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me yours?” she teases when the silence drags between them. “That’s how introductions are supposed to work, you know.” 

“Bellamy,” he answers gruffly after a moment. 

She turns to look at him over her shoulder, “It’s nice to meet you, Bellamy.” 

He just nods his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his torn-up jeans, not sure how to speak to her when she’s looking at him like that. She accepts his nod with one of her own and then goes back to cleaning up the counter. 

Silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable; in fact, standing here in her small, rundown clinic, listening to her fiddle with contents of the cupboards is the most at ease he’s felt in a long time. The adrenaline from the fight has almost entirely worn off, but this time the crash doesn’t seem as harsh. 

He looks over at Atom again. 

Clarke must follow his gaze or else read his mind, because she suddenly transitions back into doctor mode, explaining the different procedures that she did to fix the wound and the kind of treatment he will need in the coming days. 

“You can leave him here for the night,” she finishes, turning to face him with her back resting against the countertop. “He doesn’t need to be monitored, not really, but he’s comfortable here and it would be best not to disturb that for now.” 

He looks at her, the way that her hair has started falling out of the bun on her head. He takes in the tired set to her shoulders after what he assumes was a long day working here and how it contrasts with the small smile on her face, making it seem bigger and brighter than it is. He watches her under the harsh light of the examination room, thinking about her willingness to stay the night looking after Atom, after his crew member, his responsibility, and he can’t hold back his curiosity any longer. “Aren’t you going to ask?” 

Clarke doesn’t ask what. Instead, she shakes her head slowly after a moment, “I know what happened.” 

Instantly, he feels defensive. She doesn’t know him or what he’s had to do; why he’s had to do it. “So what? Is this a regular occurrence for you? You help all the gang bangers?” 

He expects her to react, to recoil in disgust at the harshness of his accusation, but she just looks at him steadily. “Only the good ones.” 

Pushing off from his position leaning against the opposite wall, he lets out a scoff. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. There aren’t good ones in this line of business. People like him aren’t good. To do what he does comes with a cost, and no one can avoid paying it for long. 

“Most people don’t stay, Bellamy,” she says, moving closer, so he’s forced to look her in the eye. “They toss their crew member, their friend, and then are flying out of the parking lot so fast that they are gone before the unconscious body has even hit the ground.” 

He grinds his teeth together, clenching his jaw, and looks away. He’s not the person she sees, and that’s not going to change no matter how much she might want it to. In the real world, bad boys don’t turn good because a pretty girl wants them to; he’s not going to suddenly find redemption and go flying off singing in a car. 

“I’m not good,” he tells her, a twinge of desperation in his voice. For some reason, he needs her to know it, to see him for what he truly is. 

“Sure,” she says after a moment, and he’s so startled at the drastic shift that he turns to look at her. With her lip between her teeth and a sparkle in her eye, it couldn’t be clearer to him that she doesn’t believe him, not for a second. 

The urge to argue is strong, to prolong their interaction in any way possible, but he bites it down. Instead, he shrugs on his jacket and moves towards the door, shaking his head. 

She’ll figure it out sooner or later, they always do.

*****

Bellamy stops at the landing to his apartment, taking a deep breath to center himself. He has no doubts that everyone will have gathered inside to wait for an update, and he needs to be the calm and collected leader they expect him to be when he steps through the door.

“Is Atom alright?” Octavia asks the moment she sees him, her eyes large and unsure, making her seem even younger to him than usual. Not that 17 is old by any stretch. 

He nods his head, pulling his jacket off and then throwing it into the pile by the door. She falls back down onto the couch, relief filling her body even as she continues to bite her nails anxiously. Bellamy looks around the room and finds similar looks on everyone. 

“Where is he?” Monty asks quietly. 

Bellamy’s attention shifts to him sitting on the floor beside the couch. He looks okay, a bit shaken, but that’s to be expected. The thought of someone actually shooting to kill them has only existed as a cautionary tale before tonight. He pauses to tilt his head reassuringly at the young boy, getting a tentative smile in return, before allowing his gaze to move to Jasper, slumped against the wall for support, clearly out of it. Bellamy’s eyes flick back to Monty, a silent question on his lips, which Monty responds to with a simple shrug. 

Letting out a silent sigh, concern churning in his stomach, Bellamy finally answers the question. “He’s still at the clinic.” 

“And you’re sure that’s safe?” Raven asks from the arm on the couch. Thoughts of Clarke with her kind eyes and bright smile flash through his mind, and he has to fight off the urge to snap at Raven for doubting her. He pushes that instinct and thoughts of her aside, though, knowing that it's a perfectly reasonable question. One that Raven certainly has the right to be asking; she takes as much responsibility for these kids as he does even though he's never pushed that role onto her. 

“Yeah, he’s good. He was all patched up and sleeping when I left. He’ll have a scar, and his arm will be out of commission for a while, but everything will be fine.” 

“He would have been fine if you weren’t so preoccupied with protecting me,” Octavia points out resentfully. Raven leans over to nudge her shoulder against O's, a silent reminder to keep it together with the offer of support, Raven's specialty when it comes to his sister, but Octavia just brushes her off. 

“O,” Bellamy responds, trying not to lose his temper while knowing that it's hopeless. If she's reacting to Raven that way, she's not going to take kindly to anything he has to say. Still, he has to try, “you are always going to be my priority in that situation. You know it, they all know it—” 

She starts to interrupt him, but he raises his voice to talk over her, so incredibly tired of having this argument. “And if you don’t like it, just stay the fuck out of it. You don’t need to be a part of this.” 

“I can take care of myself,” she responds stubbornly. 

“It doesn't matter, Octavia,” he says in exasperation “Atom knows how to take care of himself, and it didn’t do him any good. It doesn’t do anyone any good when shit hits the fan, and bullets are flying everywhere.” 

It hits him again how bad this all could have gone. He shouldn’t have even been there. It was a simple drop, something he hasn’t done in years. It was a total chance that Raven and he were there. Octavia can complain all she wants about how overprotective he is, but the reality is that he was only there because he still thinks of them as inexperienced even though they are now all older than he was when he started. 

“But you didn’t even give me a ch—” 

“Enough,” he snaps, finally losing his careful hold on his patience. He understands that this is how she copes; blaming him for her problems is comfortably familiar to her in the same way booze and pills are for Jasper, but he doesn’t have the patience for it tonight. Octavia glares at him, it’s a look that he’s more than familiar with at this point, and settles back onto the couch with her arms crossed over her chest. 

He waits another few seconds, glaring right back to make sure she’s not going to start back up again, before turning to face Murphy where he’s leaning casually against the countertop. “What the fuck happened?” 

Murphy’s job here, aside from the typical stuff, is to make sure that they don’t go walking into traps like that. It's most of the reason why Bellamy keeps him around, or at least why he tells himself that he keeps him around. If there’s one thing Murphy is good at, it’s surviving.

“It's still not clear,” Murphy explains, taking over, “I did some digging after Reyes called me, and no one knows much, but it doesn’t seem to have been about us at all. From what I can tell, there was an issue between Kane and Dante that came to a head there.” 

_Fucking Kane and fucking Dante_ , Bellamy thinks bitterly. While he hates this whole world, hates it with a passion, he despises the guys who sit up in their towers built on drug money with no regard for who gets hurt in their quest for more. Yet, for as much as it angers him, he knows that there’s nothing to do about it. Like a well-practiced machine, he pushes the rage back down. 

“So, it was basically a case of wrong time, wrong place,” Bellamy surmises irritatedly. 

Slowly, a grimace finds its way onto Murphy’s face, “Pretty much.” 

Bellamy runs his hand through his hair in agitation. A heavy weight settles around the room, all of them knowing what that means and hating the powerless feeling that comes from that knowledge. Or at least almost all of them. 

“That’s it?” Octavia questions in outrage, looking from one of them to the other. “Atom gets shot, nearly dies, and we are just going to do nothing!” 

“O,” he says, stepping towards her, suddenly exhausted, “It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s that we _can’t._ ” 

“If it was someone else, if it was me with the bullet in my shoulder, you wouldn’t think that.” 

He hates that she’s right. If something were to happen to her, he’d burn the fucking world down with no regrets, but just because that’s what he would do for her doesn’t make it the right move. She must see the determination on his face, must know that he’s not going to budge no matter what she says, because she jumps off the couch, throwing one of the pillows at him in a way that isn’t at all friendly and storms off to her room. The slam of the door reverberates through him like a stab to the side. 

She’s upset, he knew she was upset the moment he walked into the room. Hell, he knew she was upset as soon as he forced her to leave with the others, demanding that she go with a shortness and sternness he doesn’t use with her, but it all fell to the side with everything else going wrong. 

Even though he doesn’t like to acknowledge it, can’t actually acknowledge it and still function, Atom means something to her, and he should have paused to consider that before engaging with her. He runs his hand through his hair. 

_What a fucking mess._

He thinks about Atom still unconscious on a hospital bed, Jasper passed out against the wall, Octavia pissed off in her room, and Monty looking so painfully young in the corner. The only thing he’s got going for him right now is that Harper decided to stay in with her Dad tonight. 

_What a fucking mess._

“I get that we don’t want little Blake going on a vengeful killing spree,” Murphy cuts, ignoring the tension in the air and storming forward as is his habit, “but you’re not serious, right?” 

Bellamy grinds his jaw together, willing himself not to lose it. “I am.” 

“No, you can’t be,” Murphy continues as though he’d said nothing, “because that would be fucking insane.” 

With one last long look at Octavia’s closed door, Bellamy turns to face Murphy, letting his rage boil up inside of him. He glares at him, hoping that he’ll get the message and back down before he loses it. 

Raven cuts in, seeing the brewing storm, “I don’t like it, Bellamy, but he’s right. We can’t do nothing. One of ours was attacked, letting that go like it’s nothing sets a bad precedent.” 

“And what would you have me do?” he asks them, desperation fueling his anger, “take on Dante’s entire organization? Kane’s? It would be fucking suicide, and you all know it.” 

Neither of them opens their mouths to contradict him, which he takes as confirmation that they don’t have any better solutions. Still, he knows them, knows that he can't leave some loophole for any of them to use against him. “No one is to make any attempts at retaliation, is that clear?” 

He looks over and sees Monty nodding his head diligently as if he was the one that Bellamy was concerned about. He turns to Murphy and gets a smartass, “Whatever you say, boss.” 

Raven holds his eyes for a moment solemnly and then nods her head in reluctant agreement. 

“Octavia,” he shouts, knowing that even though she left, she’ll have continued to listen through the thin walls. He waits for a moment with nothing and then gets a loud bang against the wall in response. 

“Sounds like a ‘no’ to me,” Murphy quips. 

“Murphy.” He means for it to sound like a threat, but it just comes out tired sounding. He’ll deal with Octavia, and it will be fine. He knows that she’ll act out, complain, and curse, but at the end of the day, she always listens when he puts his foot down. 

Slowly, he walks across the room to help move Jasper to the couch, not wanting to leave him on the cold floor all night. Monty, he suspects, will find his way into Octavia’s room as soon as everyone clears out to try and calm her fiery rage. Bellamy wishes him luck; he’s not even going to attempt it until tomorrow. 

“Are you all good?” he asks everyone, but mostly Monty, waiting only long enough for a chorus of affirmations to reach him before making his way into his room. 

Closing the door behind him, Bellamy finally gives in to the urge to let his head hang low, and his shoulders fall. He gives himself until the count of ten before pushing off the door and walking towards his bed, shedding his clothes as he goes. With the dried bloodstains that cover them, he knows there’s no saving them, so he leaves them where they land on the floor. 

Falling into bed, he lets out another sigh, the weight of the last few hours settling on him. He expects his sleep to be restless, filled with cries and shouts, bullets, and blood. It's what he’s grown used to. Instead, he wakes up well-rested the next morning, the faint outline of a gentle touch and clear blue eyes, lingering on the edge of his consciousness.

*****

Bellamy didn't have any intentions of ever going back to Clarke's out of the way clinic, really, truly, but there's just something about her that’s mesmerizing, and he can’t stay away. She lingers on his mind like a catchy song, invading his subconscious at the strangest of moments until a few weeks later, he's pulling into the clinic’s parking lot, his old truck the only one taking up a parking space.

For the most part, everything has calmed down since he was last here. It took Octavia a few days to talk to him again and then another few days, a week later when Atom suddenly decided that this wasn’t the life for him and left to stay with some far off relative until he could get back on his feet. Despite how devastated Octavia was, and the cruel words she threw at him in response to that hurt, Bellamy can’t help but feel like it was the right move. Any chance to leave this world should be taken in haste.

It took a while, but eventually, everything settled back into its normal state. Product is moving smoothly, everyone he’s responsible for is relatively stable, and most importantly, no one is getting shot at. He’s been busy, and if he’s honest, that is the only reason why it took him weeks and not days to find himself here again. 

Pushing open the front door, Bellamy feels his heart start to race, nearly as fast as the first time he walked through these doors. The thought of seeing her again has adrenaline coursing through him, stronger than anything he’s experienced in a long time. After a while, the rush of making a deal or the sound of gunfire loses its potency. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke greets him with a smile on her face the moment he steps into the building. The look sends a burst of unexpected warmth through him, and then just as quickly, he’s consumed with a feeling of foolishness. 

He steps further into the waiting room stiffly, unsure of himself now that she’s spotted him. He watches as the delight on her face turns to a frown, the feeling of regret cementing itself in his stomach. _What is he doing here? Why did he think that she’d care to see him?_

“What happened?” she asks, stepping around the reception desk and then cupping her hand against his cheek to examine his face without a second of hesitation. 

He tries to focus on what she’s saying, but he’s too caught up in the feeling of her soft hand pressed against his skin. Generally, he doesn’t like people touching him. He won't tolerate it for long unless it’s a few specific people; one person, really, and even then, he has no recollection of a time when it didn’t make him uncomfortable to some degree. Clarke seems to be the one true exception, though. 

Thinking back to their last encounter, he realizes that it’s not exactly new. Then, she had smoothed her hands across his chest and he hadn’t even flinched. Every issue that he typically has with doctors, nonexistent. Startled by the revelation, he doesn’t realize she’s asked him a question until she’s staring at him expectantly. 

“It was just a little misunderstanding,” he tells her, assuming that the question has something to do with the injuries on his face. 

“Come with me,” she commands, stepping back and then walking towards the room they were in last time without as much as a backward glance to see if he’s following. 

“I’m fine,” he tells her, following her lead despite his assessment. It’s the truth this time. Both the cut across his cheek and the bruise around his eye will heal without any extra assistance. 

She doesn’t say anything else, just glares at him before patting the stool opposite her firmly in invitation. He rolls his eyes, but his feet are already moving him across the room towards her. He sits on the directed stool, and she rolls hers closer so that she’s nestled in between his open legs. 

“What’s with the obsession with fixing me?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the sarcastic tone of the question. 

Pausing in her ministrations, Clarke raises an eyebrow at him, “You come into a clinic, to visit a doctor, looking like that, and think that I’m not going to feel compelled to help you?” 

He just shrugs, unsure of what to say. Most people aren’t as kind as her; he can’t count the number of times that he’s been glared at in hospitals or, worse, chased out for looking like he does, but it seems unnecessarily cruel to tell her that. He has no desire to destroy her idyllic view of the world. 

“It’s bad for business,” she answers again once it is clear he’s not going to say anything, as she places butterfly tape carefully over the worst of the scrapes, “having you leave looking like that; it makes it look like I can’t do my job. How am I supposed to make a living?” 

Involuntarily, his eyes flit back to her, never able to stay off her for long no matter how hard he might try. There’s concentration in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. He lets out a huff of air, not able to suppress his joyful laughter entirely. The corners of her lips turn up, and a flash of pride shoots through him at being the one to make her smile a little fuller. 

Even though he has countless things he'd like to say, questions he'd like to ask her, he stays quiet while she works. Instead, he watches her as she works, amazed by the care she puts into it and the joy she seems to find in doing it. 

It doesn't take her long to finish fixing him up, much faster than he would have liked, but it was late when he suddenly decided to forget everything else and come see her, and it’s way past late now. The parking lot is totally dark when they walk out together, save for the moon, and the stars shining brightly above them. 

He waits patiently beside her as she stops to lock the building, noting with dismay that she uses nothing more than a simple metal key. When she turns back to face him, he’s sure she can see the disapproval on his face if her bemused smile is anything to go by, but she doesn’t comment on it.

They stay like that for a moment, enjoying each other’s company and the crisp night air, until a yawn overtakes her face and he is reminded of the hour. He says a soft goodbye that she echoes, and it’s only then that he catches on to the faultiness in her logic. 

For a second, as he watches her round the building to where he presumes her car is parked, Bellamy considers not calling her out on it, but in the end, he can’t hold back. 

“It doesn’t work. This is a free clinic,” he calls out after her. “There’s no one paying.” 

She turns around, continuing to walk backward, the moonlight like a halo behind her, and winks at him. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”


	2. Winding in and winding out

The next time he shows up at the clinic, it’s with a specific purpose in mind. It’s a Saturday, the first one that he’s had free from obligation in weeks, and he’s finally figured out how he can thank her. Also, if he’s honest with himself, which he isn’t, it’s the perfect excuse to keep seeing her without constantly injuring himself. 

When he walks through the door, the waiting room has a few people sitting in the worn chairs, and presumably someone in the examination room, so he settles himself in an out of the way spot, putting his toolbox softly on the ground beside him. From his chair, he can feel the warmth of the sun shining on him through the window, and the hint of a breeze through the open door; it’s perfect. 

Bellamy watches a little boy drive a toy car up and down the rows of chairs while he waits, wondering if he was ever that carefree; if he was ever allowed to be that carefree. He doesn’t think so. The boy spots him watching, then smiles, lifting up his toy for display. He smiles back, thrilled that someone as innocent as a child can still look at him with trust in their eyes. 

Eventually, an elderly man steps out of the examination room, Clarke close behind him. Slowly, they walk over to the waiting room, where she gives him a hug in goodbye before turning to address the next person on her list. The Mom and son gather their belongings up while Bellamy watches, content to continue waiting. As the boy walks away, his hand in his Mother’s, he pauses to wave goodbye. Bellamy returns the gesture. 

Clarke's just turning to follow them when she does a double-take, spotting him sitting in the corner. For a second, she looks startled, her eyes scanning him for injury and then confused when he appears fine. He tips his head forward, signaling for her to continue on with her patients, but she hesitates, a crease between her eyebrows. After another moment of hesitation, she turns to the duo, whispering a few words, and pointing to the room where they can go, before turning back to him, and indicating for him to follow. 

Picking up his toolbox, he follows her down the narrow hallway into an unfamiliar room. Looking around it appears to be some kind of an office; rows of filing cabinets are pressed against one wall while a large desk takes up the majority of the small space. There’re a few pictures on it, but other than that, the surface is covered entirely with scraps of paper. 

“Is everyone alright?” she asks as soon as the door is closed behind her, “Are you all right?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he starts to tell her, but she seems to have decided that his word when it comes to his physical wellbeing can no longer be trusted because she steps forward to start assessing him anyways. She begins with his face, turning his head this way and that to look for injuries. Then she runs her hands through his hair in a way that feels strangely intimate even though he knows she’s just looking for a head wound. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats gruffly, stopping her as she starts to poke at his sides, a hint of amusement coming through despite his best intentions, “Go help people who actually need it. I’m good to wait.” 

She steps back, seemingly satisfied. “It’s probably going to be a while... what can I do for you?” 

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly uncharacteristically nervous. “Last time I noticed that this building is rather old, and I thought it might have problems, and maybe I could help?” 

“You want to fix things for me?” she asks after a moment, disbelief coloring her tone. And then, “Do you even know how?” 

A rush of shame passes through him, making him angry. Of course, he’s not good enough. _Why would she ever think a drug dealer like him would know how to fix up her rundown building?_

“No, of course not. It was a stupid idea. I wouldn’t know what I was doing.” He turns away, ready to leave without another thought, but she grabs his arm to stop him, and like the fool he is, he lets her. 

“Hey,” she says, and then when he doesn’t turn back to face her, she steps around him so that they are once again eye to eye. “I was just surprised, okay, and that’s not because of you, it’s because of me. I’ve been here for almost six months, and no one has even hinted at wanting to help, well, except for Wells, but he can barely hang a painting, so I’m not letting him anywhere around here with power tools.” 

Against his will, jealousy flares to life inside of him at the sound of another man’s name on her lips, but he quickly pushes it back down. That is so not why he’s here. 

Unaware of his internal turmoil, Clarke continues, a soft smile finding its way onto her face. “I would love some help. What were you thinking?” 

“Your roof needs work,” he starts off, still strangely hesitant. 

She bites her lip, her eyes gleaming, “It definitely does.”

“And I noticed a few cracks in the walls out there. The light in the hallway flickers...” 

“Sounds like a lot of work,” she responds once he finishes listing off all the repairs he hopes to make. 

He lifts his shoulders up in a half-hearted shrug, “I’ve got time.” 

“You’ll be here a lot,” she adds on, grinning. 

He lets a well practiced smirk slide onto his face, leaning in a little close “Is that a problem?”

“Nope,” she says softly, looking at him like— looking at him like he’s everything good in her world. His heart starts to race. She leans indiscriminately closer, but in the small space, it feels like a lot. 

This close, he can smell the flowery scent of her shampoo clearly, see the complexity of her blue eyes with the kind of detail he's not sure he should. It’s addicting. He moves a little closer, so close that he can feel the hint of her exhale when she lets out a shuddering breath. 

For a second, he thinks she’s going to kiss him; for a moment, he wonders if he’s going to kiss her. 

And then the spell breaks. 

A crash in the waiting room reminds her of where they are, and she jumps back with a start. She tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear, a beautiful flush covering her cheeks. 

“I should be getting back... we’ll talk later?” 

He nods his head in agreeance, watching as she turns around to leave with only one quick glance back, but he knows they won’t, at least not in the way she’s thinking. He lets out a sigh as soon as she’s out of sight, his breathing strangely uneven. While the crash might have reminded her of where they are, it has reminded him of who they are, and why that can never happen. At least not like that. 

Now, he just needs to keep that thought firmly in his head. Which he’s sure that he can do, mostly sure. Instead of dwelling on the uncertainty, though, Bellamy picks up his toolbox; he’s got things to fix.

*****

That afternoon, he pulls out his wrench, and fixes the leak in her sink. The next time, he brings a container of plaster with him, and starts repairing the many holes, dents, and cracks in the walls. On and on he goes, slowly checking items off his list while getting to know her better, as May turns to June and June to July.

While he's not there as often as he’d like, life keeps him busy, almost all of his free time is spent in her little clinic. Saturday mornings and random Thursday nights; he makes time whenever he can, and she’s always there ready to welcome him. For a while, he is almost convinced that she never leaves. 

One June night, he asks her about it, worried that she’s always here because she’s not sure when he’s going to show up. She just laughs it off in that way of hers, brushing off his concern as though it isn’t warranted. His doubts linger, though, so she smiles sweetly, tells him that she really doesn’t have anywhere else to be. He doesn’t believe it for a second, but he’s also not going to say anything more. 

Still, she must sense his unease because a few days later, she throws him a key chain with a single metal key on it just as he's leaving for the night. When he looks to her, hesitantly fiddling with the metal ring, she just grins at him, “In case I’m ever not here.” 

Before that moment, he knew that she trusted him she’d left him alone in her office within weeks of knowing him. Quite frankly, he thinks she trusts in him too much, but he’s beyond the point of despairing over it. Instead, he just vows not to make her regret giving him that trust. They are closer now than he ever would have imagined, and it's thrilling, but it's also complicated. 

He sees the way she looks at him, especially once the summer heat truly arrives; the glances out of the corner of her eye when they are sitting together, the blatant appraisal when he’s working up high with his shirt off and thinks he isn’t looking. If for a second, he believed that an attraction was all that it was between them, he’d go for it, but it isn’t; it has the potential to be much more, so he holds back. 

And it’s not as hard as he thought it would be. He still finds himself checking her out more often than not, and occasionally, Clarke will turn to say something, and his breath will catch in his throat, but aside from that, he loves her laugh, loves getting to listen to her talk about her day. It’s enough. More than enough. 

For a while, everything seems perfect until one day when he goes to drop a load of torn out carpet into the dumpster outside, and his carefully sectioned life starts to blur. He spots Murphy lingering in the parking lot, his signature black hoody standing out starkly against the t-shirts and tank tops of everyone else. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bellamy tells him stiffly, the minute he’s in front of him, voice leaving no room for argument. 

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Murphy sneers at him, blatantly disrespecting him in a way that Bellamy's come to expect, but will only tolerate for so long, “the new shipment is—” 

Bellamy cuts the boy’s speech off with a stern glare, scanning the area around them to see if anyone is close enough to eavesdrop. Even though he sees no one, doesn’t expect there to be anyone, Clarke having told him more than once that summer months are slower, he grabs hold of Murphy’s arm, and pulls him to the small parking lot at the back of the building. 

“Get off of me,” Murphy complains as soon as they make it around the back, yanking his arm free.

“Watch yourself,” Bellamy warns coolly. 

For his part, Murphy rolls his eyes and adjusts his sleeve, but since he doesn’t say anything more, Bellamy chooses to let it go. 

“The new shipment is at the docks.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Bellamy responds, infusing boredom into his tone, even though he knew no such thing. He should have known, probably days ago, but that’s a problem for him to evaluate later. 

“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?” Murphy accuses him, the aggression that had been simmering within him finally taking hold, “Where even is here?” 

He looks around, eyeing the building with open disdain, and then turns back to face him. “Is this where you’ve been the last few months, in this shit hole? Seriously, Pike’s men are gaining more ground every day and don’t even get me started on what the fucking mess that is Dante and Kane. This is why you’ve let everything fall apart!” 

“Remember who you’re talking to, Murphy,” he cautions, voice deep, eyes flashing. Nothing is falling apart and he knows it. While he may have been spending more time here, he sure as hell hasn’t been neglecting everything else. Pike will gain ground and lose ground, it’s just the way of things, and once again, there’s nothing he can fucking do about Dante or Kane. He grinds his jaw together. 

Murphy rolls his eyes again, and that’s the end of Bellamy’s patience. He gives Murphy some leeway, more than he should probably, understanding how rough the kid’s life has been, but there’s only so far that he’ll let it go. There’s a chain of command for a reason, and he won’t have Murphy fucking it all up because he thinks he knows everything. 

Taking one step forward, Bellamy advances on Murphy, pushing him backward until he’s pressed between the old brick of the clinic with barely an inch of room to breathe. “Are you questioning me?” 

This close, Bellamy can see the gulp as it passes down Murphy’s throat, the twinge of fear in his eye. While Murphy isn’t small by any means, in this position, he towers over him. It's a stark reminder of how young the man in front of him actually is, only a few years older than Octavia. Suddenly, Bellamy feels the unreasonable urge to step back, to give him space and forgiveness, but he doesn't. He needs Murphy to remember this feeling, to listen to him, if not for his sanity than for Murphy’s safety. 

Just as Bellamy starts to think that maybe he’s made his point, another wave defiance seems to rise up within him. A nasty smirk morphs onto Murphy’s face. “Looks like someone needs to.” 

In an instant, Bellamy feels his blood boil, _why can’t he ever just fucking listen_. Up until now, he’s kept his hands to himself, having no desire to actually hurt the kid regardless of the temptation, not even wanting to use the threat of violence, but that reservation is gone. 

Bellamy raises his arm up, pinning Murphy to the wall. “Now listen here—” 

But his threat is stopped short by the sound of a door opening a few feet from them. The clang of the metal door closing echoing loudly around them. 

“Go back inside,” he commands, not needing to look to know it’s Clarke. 

He watches Murphy’s eyes go wide in understanding, and his annoyance reaches a new level. Aided by the fact that he still doesn’t hear the sound of her retreating footsteps or the door opening. _Fuck._

“And suddenly it all makes sense,” Murphy starts with bravo that he certainly shouldn’t feel, “She’s hot, I’ll give you that. I bet she’s good—” 

“Say another word, Murphy,” he dares the man in front of him, suddenly much more eager to wipe the smirk off his face. There must be something truly dangerous in his tone, though, because Murphy’s eyes snap back to his, still filled with deviance, but less so. He glares at him, pressing his arm a little harder against his windpipe, “Are you done?” 

“Bellamy,” Clarke interjects before Murphy can answer. 

Although it’s tempting to engage with her, especially since he’s now acutely aware that she’s watching him, he keeps his focus on Murphy, waiting for him to submit. 

“Bellamy,” she says again more urgently. He plans to just keep ignoring her until his Murphy problem is dealt with, but then he hears her step closer. 

“What?” he turns to snap at Clarke. 

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she just raises her eyebrow at him as if to say, _really, that’s what you’re going with?_

Bellamy lets out a slow breath, feeling the tension drain out of him under her steady gaze. He shouldn’t have snapped, not at her. He lets out another breath, the rationality of earlier returning. 

And then Murphy lets out a low whistle, and it all rushes back. 

Grabbing hold of his sweater, Bellamy drags Murphy away from the wall and shoves him away from him, towards the street, in the opposite direction of Clarke. “I will deal with you later. Go. Now, Murphy!” 

Like the cocky bastard he is, Murphy turns away from him with a salute and starts to slowly walk towards the road. Bellamy watches as his silhouette disappears in the distance, trying desperately to get himself under control. Right now, all he wants to do is slam his fist into the wall, and that’s not an acceptable headspace to be in around her. 

When he finally turns around, the buzzing under his skin has calmed slightly. Enough that he thinks he’ll be able to have a calm conversation with her; hopes that he will. Part of him just wants to walk away, any other situation, and that’s what he’d do, but she deserves better than that. 

“Well, that was just a little much, don’t you think?” she questions lightly when he turns to face her, but he can see the irritation in her stance. It's not fear like he thought it would be, and that just makes everything worse. 

“Clarke, do you even know who that was?” he asks with exasperation, aggression in his body, and his tone. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say one of your associates?” 

“One of my—” a laugh escapes him, dark and cruel, “associates?” 

She doesn’t say anything, looking at him like she looks at him again, but it doesn’t matter, it’s too late. He should have just walked away. “An associate? Clarke, it’s not the fucking businessmen of America, He was a drug dealer; he takes the drugs I give him, sells them, and then when people don’t want to pay, he hurts them.” 

“Okay, Bellamy,” she says, rolling her eyes, “you've made your point.” 

“No,” he practically growls, “I don’t think I have. He’s a drug dealer Clarke, and he was here!” 

_Why she can’t see how wrong that is. How Murphy being here taints this beautiful place that she’s worked so hard to build._ He searches for the words to explain it to her, coming up blank again and again. 

“And what are you?” she asks mildly, breaking him out of his thoughts and sending a sheet of ice down his back. The truth is that somehow along the way, between the late night discussions over cold pizza, and the teasing grins, Bellamy had deluded himself into believing that he was better than Murphy. Somehow thinking that just because he doesn’t work the streets anymore, he deserved to be here. 

“That is not what I meant,” she says with a sigh, pulling her hair out of its customary bun and letting it fall in a wave of sunlight around her shoulders. 

He watches her, standing with her pretty flower dress on, creamy white skin on display, her blond hair flying in the breeze, and thinks about the picture they make standing across from each other. “But you’re right.” 

“That is not what I meant,” she repeats, emphasizing every word. “You are so much more than the man that came in with a bleeding boy in his arms three months ago. You were then, and you are now. I’m just saying that whoever that was, deserves to be more than that too.” 

She takes a step towards him, her arm raised to touch his shoulder comfortingly, but he dodges out of the way, her words ringing loudly in his head. “I’m not some fucking charity case.” 

“I didn’t say—” Clarke cuts herself off, “No, you know what? If that’s what you think, you can just fuck off.” 

The curse falls clumsily off her pretty pink lips, prompting a cruelly mocking laugh from his. _Really, what was he thinking?_

She must have a similar thought because she turns around to go back into the building without another word, the heavy metal door banging loudly as it shuts. 

He stands there for a moment, staring at the closed door, and then slams his fist into the wall beside him. The bricks shake with the force of the punch, sending a puff of dust into the air; his hand throbs a steady pattern, yet strangely, he doesn’t feel better.

*****

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Octavia asks him, flopping onto the couch beside him. It's one of those rare days when they are the only two in the apartment. Monty is off at a science camp; Jasper is probably off getting stoned out of his reach of disapproval. Harper is on a trip with her Dad to spread her Mother’s ashes. Murphy is avoiding him while he’s avoiding Raven, knowing that she’ll have talked to Murphy by now, and undoubtedly will want some answers.

“Nothing,” he responds quickly, continuing to look down at the book in his hands. Too quickly if her lingering is any indication. 

“Bullshit,” she fires back just as fast. 

Setting down his book with a sigh, Bellamy turns to look at her. “Language,” he reprimands, even though he knows it’s useless. 

“That’s fucking bullshit,” she rephases with a grin to which he just shakes his head. He’d known he was going to lose this battle by the time she turned six, but still, he has to try. 

“I am fine,” he repeats for her benefit, and he is, mostly. So what if he keeps replaying his fight with Clarke over and over in his head. It was always going to end this way he just sped up the process. 

“This is the most I've seen you in months,” Octavia tells him bluntly. 

He searches her face, trying to spot any hint of discontent. He didn’t think he was gone that often; she’s seventeen, not seven, she has her own life now outside of him, but maybe he was distracted. Maybe he had been taking everything he thought they had for granted. Maybe— 

“Oh my god, stop!” she complains, reading his thoughts perfectly and throwing her head back against the couch, “I didn’t mean it like that. I see more than enough of your stupid face.” 

“If you want me to be around more...” he starts earnestly, but she cuts him off, putting her hand firmly over his mouth to muffle the rest of his speech. Satisfied for the moment that he hasn’t made some huge parental grievance. He grins beneath her hand and then sticks out his tongue to lick her. 

Her eyes widen comically in horror, and then she pulls her hand back hastily, wiping it against his shirt in retaliation. She looks at him in disgust, and he lets out a surprised laugh. For the first time in days, he doesn’t feel a heavy weight pushing down on his chest. Slowly, he starts to see a grin making its way onto her face, and then she’s laughing alongside him, albeit reluctantly. 

He slides closer to her, wrapping his arm around her in a sideways hug. “Aww, do you miss me, O?” 

“Not even a bit,” she responds scathingly, but he can see the affection in her eyes as she leans into his embrace. He tilts his head back against the couch, enjoying the happy moment. 

“What happened to your hand?” Octavia asks him pointedly, never willing to just let things go. 

Fighting off a grimace, he flexes his still swollen hand in his lap. For a second, he considers not saying anything, but ultimately, he decides that the truth is harmless enough. “I punched a wall.” 

She rolls her eyes, and he can’t blame her. It was a stupid move: he’s supposed to be a grown-ass adult, not an angsty teenager. It’s been nearly a decade since he was one. He should have moved past the impulse to punch things by now. 

“So, it was about a girl then,” she surmises. His eyes widen in astonishment, and she just smirks knowingly at him. “Come on, you don’t just go around punching things anymore.” 

Not knowing what to say, Bellamy just decides to say nothing. 

“Please tell me it’s not another Echo,” she says, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She never was Echo’s biggest fan. 

“There was nothing wrong with Echo,” he tells her, suppressing a groan. Echo only lasted for about a year when Octavia was 14, but for some reason, she made a lasting impression on O. 

“Doesn’t mean there was anything right there either,” she adds, “she was... cold.” 

Bellamy knows that to Octavia, he’s not that person. He's her lovably grumpy brother who’s so overprotective that it’s annoying, but he’s sure that Echo would describe him exactly the same way. What they had wasn’t serious, but that’s what he needed at the time. In the year that they were hanging out, he knows that she never once stayed the night. He can’t name a single meaningful thing about her life now, not that he could back then either. Hell, he can count on one hand the number of meals they ate together, he had more conversations with Clarke in a matter of weeks. 

“Not another Echo,” Octavia realizes, looking at him softly, so softly that he looks away, uncomfortable. 

“No, not at all,” he responds with a sigh, thinking about all the ways that Clarke’s different, all the ways that his relationship with her was different, “We weren’t even— it doesn’t matter, I fucked it up.” 

She looks at him like he’s an idiot, which to be fair he is, but he doesn’t need her to rub it in. “Then fix it.” 

“It’s not that easy O,” he says, rubbing his hand across his face, and it isn’t. As much as the fight was bad, the whole situation was poised to blow up from the start. They don’t work, don’t fit. Or more like he doesn’t fit. 

“If she matters, you fix it,” she repeats stubbornly. Bellamy envies her sometimes, the way that she always seems so sure of herself. He's never had that. 

“Yeah,” he agrees halfheartedly, and if there’s a twinge of sadness in his voice, well, there’s nothing he can do about that. Thankfully, Octavia seems to finally have decided that she’s pushed enough for now. 

“Do you want to watch cheesy romantic comedies with me?” she asks suddenly, twisting to face him with a grin. 

“No,” he says bluntly, mostly because that’s what he’s supposed to say. 

“Too bad!” she responds cheerily, already reaching for the remote. 

He passes the rest of the day like that, watching over dramatic protagonists fall in and out of love while Octavia laughs, cries, and mocks them from beside him. For dinner, he makes spaghetti or ‘alien brains” as he used to tell Octavia when she was young and tired of having the same cheap meal over and over again. 

Altogether, it’s a great day, the kind of day that he hasn’t had with his sister in a long time, but through it all, a shadow hangs over him. Just a vague feeling of wrongness like something is missing. Faintly, he wishes that he could just go back to being angry instead of whatever empty feeling this is. It was so much easier.

*****

He takes a few days after that, continuing to stew in his rage and resentment, then he stops at a coffee shop, grabs one of the ridiculously overpriced coffee that he knows Clarke loves even if she says otherwise, and heads to the clinic. Somewhere around the third movie, Bellamy realized that he missed her more than anything, and then after that, it was just coming to terms with the inevitable.

She sees him the minute he walks in the door, their eyes lock for a second over the head of the patient she’s talking with, and then she looks away pointedly. He places the peace offering on the reception desk and then walks into the back to grab his tools, desperately trying not to let the weight of her continued silence bring him down. 

As much as he hates the cold look in her eye, wishes it would just go away with the simple gift, the longer she ignores him, the better he feels. The punishment feels justified, but more than that, it reaffirms to him that she knows what she’s getting into with him. At least as much as she can with the air of innocence that surrounds her at all times. 

It’s not until hours later, after he’s completed all the work he planned to do and then some, that she comes and finds him at the back of the property. He doesn’t look at her as she settles beside him on top of an old picnic table. He wouldn’t have even known it was her if not for the distinctive smell of her shampoo in the air and the tingling feeling against his skin that he only ever gets when she is near. 

He doesn’t apologize; he’s not that guy, not even she can change that, and she doesn’t either. _Not that she should,_ he corrects himself mentally, it was his fuck up. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say. 

“It’s not going to work for you to keep your lives separate,” she tells him softly, “You can’t have something here with me without it bleeding over to the rest, and you can’t stop the rest of it all from bleeding over to me either. It won’t work.” 

“It _can,_ ” he says, finally turning his head to look at her, “I’ll make it.” 

He’d thought it over staring at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom night after night. His mistake was not telling anyone where he was and assuming that they wouldn’t find out. That was never going to work; they are all far too nosy for that, but if he tells them a bit, explains why he doesn’t want that part of his life around here, then he’s sure they will understand. 

She looks skeptical, really, she looks like she thinks he’s full of shit. Her eyes are narrowed, and full lips are turned down in a pout; her head tilted to the side where it rests against her hand. She watches him, staring at him as if she can see into his soul. He fights the urge to shield himself. 

After what feels like an eternity, she nods her head, more to herself than to him, and then jumps to her feet. He looks at her in question, confused by the sudden shift, but she just smiles at him, the smile that he’s grown accustomed to seeing; the smile that he’s missed more than he cares to admit. 

“Let’s order some food, I didn’t stop for lunch, and I didn’t see you stop either.” 

He lets his own smile crawl onto his face, taking her offered hand in his own and then following her back into the building. He's not naive enough to think that’s the end of it; the two of them as anything more than passing strangers is a disaster waiting to happen. For now, though, he has her soft hand firmly encased in his rough one, and the sound of her laughter, bright and musical in his ear, so he’s able to push the worry of someday out of his mind.


	3. Hope dangles on a string

Bellamy’s resolution of keeping everything away from Clarke doesn’t even last a full week. It’s not surprising, really, but he still finds himself vaguely annoyed when Octavia first shows up. 

He's outside, the summer sun hot on his bareback, trying to figure out why her water seems to lose pressure at random intervals. A task which he's mostly failing at if the mud covering his work boots, and the soaked t-shirt hanging from a nearby tree are anything to go by. 

Cursing the outdated piping, Bellamy pushes his wet hair out of his eyes, and that’s when a shadow falls across him. Squinting in the bright light, he looks up, and Octavia comes into focus. Instantly, his already unpleasant mood darkens, a scowl forming on his face. 

“Bell!” she greets him with a bright grin, never having concerned herself with catering to his moods. She pushes her cheap drug store sunglasses onto the top of her head, and looks him up and down, “Having a little trouble?” 

His scowl deepens at the mirth in her eyes. “Did you come all this way just mock me?” 

“Of course not,” she says like he’s ridiculous. Reaching into the oversized bag hanging from her shoulder, she shoves a sweatshirt, worn and grey, into his arms. “You left this at home.” 

“It’s 80 degrees out here,” he deadpans, looking at the garment in his hands. 

“And it looks like you could really use it,” she responds smartly, “No one needs to see all that naked skin.” 

Bellamy can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes at the look of revulsion on her face, his ire diminishing as his amusement grows. Finally, he lets out a groan in exasperation; she’s a brat, but she’s his brat. 

“I’m just going to go in and say hi,” she tells him quickly while he’s distracted with thoughts of her as a gangly 7-year-old with an attitude problem. 

He starts to object, to inform her in no uncertain terms that she will not be going in to say hi to Clarke, but she’s already halfway towards the front door. He looks down at his mud-covered feet, thinks about the water still dripping from his hair, and lets out a sigh. He should have known that Octavia would show up here as soon as he told her where he’d been, she was too excited. 

“That wasn’t subtle at all O!” he calls to her retreating form. 

“Wasn’t meant to be,” she responds with her back to him. 

Shaking his head at her antics, he turns back to the mess in front of him. There are probably worse people in his life for Clarke to be interacting with. And really, he’s not that worried. The most that Octavia will share are some embarrassing stories, and while he’s not thrilled with that idea, it’s not at all what he had been worried about with Murphy. It will be fine.

*****

“So,” Clarke starts with forced nonchalance, a takeout box filled with fried rice in her hands, “Octavia is your sister?” 

A grin forms on his face that he hides behind a bite of chicken; he wondered how long she was going to last before the questions started. He had hoped that she would be right on it when he walked into her office over an hour ago, just as curious as to what the two of them had talked about, but she’d managed to hold off. 

From there, it somehow turned some unspoken game of who would ask first. A game that she just lost. He watches her fiddle with the chopsticks in her hand in anticipation, a smirk on his face. “Kind of.” 

“Bellamy,” she reprimands with a huff, poking him in the leg with a brightly colored toe, but he can see the sparkle of matching amusement in her eyes. 

Carefully, he considers how much to tell her. It’s not a simple story or a particularly happy one, but he has to think that she already knows that. At least, she should. Drugs and happy childhoods don’t mix. 

Her hair is down around her shoulders tonight, blond strands curling in the humidity. Another floral dress hugs her figure perfectly while her pair of professional-looking heels have long been discarded by the desk. Tilting her head to the side, she looks at him quizzically, and he just smiles back bashfully, overcome with what a beautiful picture she paints in front of him. She’s comfortable and relaxed; at ease. 

He thinks about the childhood he suspects that she had: Mom, Dad, a four-bedroom house with its own backyard. She seems like she came from a privileged life. There are just little things about her, the formal way she speaks most of the time, the newness of her clothing, how she doesn’t hesitate on menu prices when ordering take out, that give her away. 

It’s not a bad thing, not at all. In fact, he’s thankful she has never felt the same hardship as him, but it’s yet another way in which their lives are vastly different. Part of him suspects that if they had met under slightly different circumstances, he would have instantly written her off as a snob. Blatantly, he wonders how horrified she’ll be at his story. Maybe after she hears it, she’ll finally start to see his life and moreover him, for what they actually are. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she offers after a moment. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head to clear it, “it’s fine. Biologically, we aren’t related, but she’s somewhere between my sister and my kid if we’re being blunt.” 

She nods her head in understanding but otherwise says nothing, neatly placing another bite of rice in her mouth. He knows he could leave it at that, he answered her question, but something compels him to continue. 

“I was around ten when my Mom met her Dad, or at least that was when we moved into their house. He was her drug dealer; I know that much. We were poor, but she was pretty...” He doesn’t know the details of the arrangement, and he doesn’t care too. Looking back, though, it’s not hard to figure out. 

Quickly, he glances over at Clarke to see the effect the less than wholesome implication has had on her, but her eyes are clear, full of compassion not pity. 

Confused, he continues on, “Octavia showed up on the doorstep a few months later, and she kind of became my responsibility. Well technically, I think she was supposed to be my Mom’s responsibility, but she wasn’t capable of handling much by that point.” 

“That must have been hard.” She says it like a statement not a question, leaving no room for doubt. 

Bellamy just shrugs his shoulders, focusing on the takeout container in his lap rather than risk looking at her again. “He was an abusive asshole, but at least he was predictable, and then when my Mom died, he let me stay. I was fifteen, too young to really make it on my own, but too old to end up somewhere half decent.” 

Now that he’s started talking, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. Part of him worries about oversharing, but she still appears interested. He clears his throat, glad to be almost at the end. 

“He took me under his wing, taught me all the intricacies of his operation; I think he hoped that I would be there to take it over one day. And I was. I was eighteen when he was arrested, nineteen when he was sentenced to 15 years for murder. A crime, I’m not wholly convinced he didn’t commit despite what he claimed.” 

“She lives with you?” Clarke asks when he pauses for too long, getting back to the original subject and away from his messed-up life with an ease that he doesn’t think he’ll ever have. 

“Yeah. He gave me custody of her before he got locked up, and she’s still only a senior in the fall, a child and a minor, no matter what she’d like people to think.” 

She smirks at the fond annoyance in his tone, and he feels lightness return to the air. “It’s just the two of you?” 

While the question is innocent enough, he would have been able to sense the hidden meaning even without the feel of her eyes sliding up and down his body in anticipation. He lets the hidden smile on his face morph into a charming grin, ready and willing to play with fire despite his reservations. 

“Technically, but we are hardly ever alone. Jasper and Monty are nearly always there, and then there’s Raven... sometimes Harper.” He watches her with a glint in his eye which she matches unrestrained. They stay like that, the air tingling between them until eventually, it builds into a crescendo and he breaks it, hastily clarifying. “Murphy too whenever he sucks up his pride enough to accept a warm roof over his head."

Comprehension dawns on her face, and then she smiles at him, blindingly bright. It sends a rush of warmth through him so strong that it overshadows the dread. He ducks his head shyly at the unspoken praise, thinking about the ragtag group he’s assembled over the last decade. It's not what she thinks it is, he just offers them a place when they have nowhere else, the same offer that was given to him, but for now, the temptation of letting her think better of him is too strong to resist. 

Or at least it is until he considers the ramifications of letting her think he’s someone he’s not, even if only for a second, settle on his mind. He likes her, that’s dangerous enough; he doesn’t need her liking him back any more than he fears she already does. Unconsciously, he rubs at the back of his neck. 

“Wow, you must live in one of those mansions” she teases, pulling him out of his thoughts, once again managing to say exactly the right thing to lighten the mood. 

He lets out a snort, thinking about his apartment which can barely be considered a two-bedroom. Drugs don’t pay nearly as well as in the movies, at least not where he’s concerned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

"Definitely,” she says, batting her eyes at him and leaning closer, a sinful smile on her lips. “Are you going to show it to me?” 

“Maybe,” he responds after a moment of hesitation, surprised to find that he actually means it.

*****

Bellamy doesn’t know how it happens, at what point the people around him stopped listening to him and just decided to do whatever the fuck they wanted, but somehow, everyone within his crew finds their way to the clinic. And the worst thing is that he can’t even be pissed about it because he lets it happen. 

It started with Octavia, and it continues with Octavia. She returns within a few days, waving cheerily at him as she passes and he does nothing except roll his eyes to himself. According to her, she hit it off with Clarke when she visited last, having more similarities than she ever could have imagined. 

Really, he should discourage her, tell her that it’s not appropriate for them to be hanging out, but she looks happy, and he’s always been a sucker for her happiness. In the end, all he does is remind her that Clarke has a job to do, and she needs to not interfere with it, which she accepts with ease he hasn’t experienced in years. 

Still, his conscience compels him to check in with Clarke to make sure she’s okay with the new development. 

He finds her in her office, and stops, leaning against the doorway staring at her back for far too long while she shuffles through the filing cabinet oblivious. More often than not now, he finds himself doing this; watching her in a way that feels a little too much like a love sick fool. 

“You know Octavia?” he finally asks gruffly, shaking his head slightly to clear the day dreams. He has a purpose here, and he needs not to forget it. 

She looks over her shoulder and grins at him, “About this tall. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a fiery personality. Not quite your sister, not quite your kid. Am I close?” 

“You’re hilarious,” he tells her, stepping into the room, but he’s sure she can see the amusement in his eyes. 

“I know,” she responds cheekily, turning to face him and then leaning back against the cabinet. 

He just shakes his head at her. Somehow, she always manages to brighten up his day. “Are you okay with her hanging around here more? Apparently, you made quite the impression.”

Biting her lip, she suddenly turns shy, a different, more restrained joy radiating out of her now. “Of course, she seems great. You did a good job with her.” 

“Well, I don’t know if I'd go that far...” he responds jokingly, but there’s more than a hint of pride behind his brotherly exasperation. Like all of them, Octavia has her issues, and it would be a mistake to forget them too quickly, but overall, he liked to think that he’d done okay. Hopefully. 

“Are you okay with her being around?” she asks, turning the question around. 

“Yes,” he says instantly. “Mostly,” he clarifies after a moment with a sigh. It should be fine, really, what harm can Octavia do in a couple of hours, every once in a while. 

“Bellamy, it’s fine.” 

More than anything, he wants to believe her, to have the unwavering optimism that seems to come so naturally to her, but he doesn’t. In his experience things don’t just work out. 

“It might even be fun,” she adds, taking a step towards him. 

“What’s this fun you speak of?” he jokes back, the sight of her grinning in front of him and the smell of her shampoo surrounding him, enough to chase away his fears. 

“Give me a chance and I’ll show you.”

*****

A week later, he walks in to find Monty sitting on one of the waiting room chairs, his back to the door. Bellamy opens his mouth to ask if something is wrong, but before he can, Jasper and Octavia round the corner carrying bins. He watches in dismay as Octavia reaches down into one of them and throws something to get Monty's attention. The object, a small stuffed teddy, Bellamy realizes with confusion, hits Monty in the head which he then proceeds to throw back towards the duo. Of course, he misses by a long shot, sending both of the targets into a laughing fit. 

“What are you guys doing?” Bellamy asks, stepping forward, and alerting them to his presence before things get out of hand. He notes with relief that there’s no one actually waiting in the waiting room. 

Despite his more than pleasant tone, Monty still starts up at the sound of his voice. Octavia on the other hand just rolls her eyes, continuing forward and then dropping the box loudly to the floor in front of Monty. Jasper, for his part, remains on the ground, his box forgotten, as huge, gasping laughs overtake his body. 

Ignoring Octavia’s judgment-filled stare for the moment, Bellamy looks closer at Jasper. He looks skinnier than he should, Bellamy decides, with his baggy t-shirt hanging heavily off his frame. Not that weight loss is enough to indicate something is wrong. Almost all of them have been skinnier than they should at some point; Octavia was small for her age up until she hit a growth spurt at 14 even though he did everything in his power to make sure she was properly fed. 

Still, something seems off. He makes a mental note to make sure Jasper’s not getting into anything other than pot. They don’t need to go down that road again, not if he can stop it. 

Thankfully, Octavia breaks him out of his thoughts though, before they can get too dark, answering his question. “We are going through some old boxes.” 

She crosses her arms defensively like she thinks he's going to argue, but he’s not; he already gave his blessing for her to be here, and he’s not going to take it back. He’s not even sure that he could take it back if he wanted to. Octavia is a force to be reckoned with alone, he doesn’t even want to imagine what it would be like trying to go up against her and Clarke.

Thinking of Clarke, Bellamy looks around and realizes for the first time that she’s nowhere to be seen. “Clarke knows that you all are here, right?” 

“How do you think we found the boxes,” Octavia asks like the exasperated teenager she is, but he just ignores it. While her continual sass grates on his nerves sometimes, it also brings him peace. He’s glad that she has the opportunity to be a smart ass just because she can and not as a coping mechanism. 

Now that it’s clear he’s not going to object to them being here, Octavia proceeds more brightly, explaining what exactly it is she’s doing. He doesn’t bother asking why the boys are with her; it’s clear that Octavia invited Jasper and where Jasper goes, Monty does. In all the years that he’s known them, he’s only seen them apart from each other a handful of times.

“You doing okay Jasper?” Bellamy can’t help but ask before he leaves. 

“Fantastic,” he responds with a toothy grin and a thumbs up. Bellamy almost believes him.

With one more moment of hesitation, Bellamy heads down the hall to do the work he’d originally intended to do, stopping only briefly on his way to wave at Clarke sitting in her office on the phone. He smiles slightly to himself as he continues to the back of the building, listening to Octavia and the boys laugh amongst themselves. 

When he steps back into the main room just over an hour later, finishing up the small project faster than he had originally thought possible, there’s more stuff and more people. Harper is next to Monty with a bag on her lap and then there’s Clarke, crouching in front of yet another box, one of those cheap plastic kid crowns perched precariously on her head. 

“Nice tiara,” he tells Clarke with a smirk, announcing his presence to the room. She looks over at the sound of his voice, and then winks at him. Or at least tries to, and he has to fight to keep a fond smile from overtaking his mouth. 

“You finally decided to come and help us Bell?” Octavia asks sarcastically from the other side of the room, thankfully, pulling his focus off Clarke before he loses the battle. She’s got a boa, filled with god knows what, wrapped around her neck and a pair of star-shaped sunglasses on her head; beside her, Jasper has got a pair of goggles dangling from his neck. 

“You can have that box,” Octavia tells him before he has a chance to say anything. His eyes involuntarily shift back to Clarke who’s got amusement written all over her face. Her eyes sparkle, letting him know that he doesn’t need to do anything else today, but he just shakes his head, the fond smile finally taking hold. 

Eyeing the piles of stuff spread out around the space, Bellamy carefully makes his way over to the directed box. “Where did all this junk come from anyways?” 

“It was all here when I got the building,” Clarke explains, “like actually all over, it was a mess. I shoved it into that room in the back there, but if figured that you’ll eventually want to get back there so…” 

Thinking back, Bellamy tries to remember what used to be here before. He should know, he's driven by it for as long as he can remember, the majority of his dealings having always taken place just past it. His mind comes up blank, though. As far as he can recollect, it's never been anything more than an abandoned building he’s never stopped to consider. 

There was no point, it was in Kane's territory until very recently, and dealing in his territory was not a headache he’s ever been interested in; it’s always been worth it to drive the extra five minutes. In fact, he tries to recall when exactly the area definitely became neutral. Boundary lines are constantly shifting, so he doesn’t pay super close attention to it, but if all of them are going to be hanging out here more regularly, he should probably check. Even if they aren’t dealing here, and they definitely aren’t, he won’t tolerate that, he doesn’t want to inadvertently cause issues with someone. He's just about to ask Clarke how she came to have the building when Octavia interrupts his thoughts. 

“So get to work.”

He shares another look with Clarke and then settles himself on the ground to go through his box. While it’s slightly tedious, and he’s more than a little concerned about what he could find when he sticks his hand inside, it’s also fun in a way that he didn’t expect. Items are thrown from person to person, various pieces of clothing are modeled, and occasionally, they all pause to try and figure out what something is. Through it all, the laughter of those around him keeps him going. 

“My mom used to have a necklace like this,” Harper says suddenly, fiddling with the fake strand of pearls in her hand. Instantly, the mode around them darkens, an old frisbee landing in a crash on the ground when Jasper fails to catch it. 

Bellamy’s just about to make his way over, ready to do whatever he can to help even if all that is a show of silent support, but he finds that Clarke has already beaten him to it, sliding across the ground until she’s close enough to comfort Harper without being too suffocating.

“I bet she was beautiful,” Clarke says softly. In the background, Bellamy can hear the trio go back to their antics, familiar by now with Harper’s bouts of melancholy. It was a long, hard journey before her Mom finally passed, and he didn’t even enter the picture until they were already a year into it. 

“She was,” Harper says, eyes a little glassy. While Harper is as tough as Octavia any day, she didn’t grow up in the same types of circumstances as the rest of them. For most of her life, things weren’t great, but they were good enough that she never learned that particular skill of repressing emotions that’s so second nature to the rest of them. “She didn’t wear them all the time, said that they were too fancy, but she always smiled a little brighter with them around her neck.” 

“My Mom wore a set of pearls too,” Clarke tells her. Thinking about it now, Bellamy realizes that Harper and Clarke’s childhoods were probably relatively similar. That’s good; it would probably be helpful for Harper to have someone to talk to about all of this who didn’t have a shitty, absentee Mother. 

Clarke looks up at him suddenly, as if just noticing that he’d paused a few steps short of them. For a second, she seems slightly unsure, but he gives her an encouraging nod. Clarke can’t have known Harper for more than a few hours, yet she’s already in tune with what the young girl needs. 

“Did your Mom ever let you wear hers?” Harper asks, looking at Clarke with excitement. 

Bellamy watches as Clarke’s eyes tighten slightly, her smile turns a little more force, but she’s back looking at Harper before he can decipher the emotion. She seems relieved though when Harper continues on without waiting for a response, “My mom used to put them around my neck whenever she wore them, just for a second because she knew how I loved them.”

There's something wistful in her eyes which tells Bellamy that her precious string of pearls was sold to pay bills before he even met her. _Sometimes, he really hates this world._

He looks over to Clarke to see how she’s fairing with the sad tale, concerned with how it might be affecting her with how uncomfortable she looked before, but he need not have worried. She's back in her element and when he catches her eye, silently asking if she wants him to take over, she shakes her head subtly in the negative. 

Still, he waits a few more seconds, the idea of someone else in that position foreign to him. She seems to have a good handle on it, though, probably better than he ever did. He turns his attention back to his box, telling himself firmly that isn’t not a bad thing for them to have people other than him to lean on, but his eyes land on Octavia instead, looking down at her phone. He watches her for a moment, typing away on her phone until she looks up at him. 

“Raven wants to come and hang with us,” she tells him. He gives her a look, confused as to why she would bother asking permission for Raven when she didn’t bother for anyone else, but before he can inquire, she continues, “She has Murphy with her.” 

His mouth thins into a line; his jaw clenches. He hasn’t talked much with Murphy since the incident, nothing aside from the necessary instruction. In spite of himself, he’s still annoyed with the way everything went down; both with the way that Murphy acted, but also with how he acted. Or rather overreacted. He knows that Murphy likes to antagonize him, it’s the way he operates, and Bellamy played right into it. 

He catches Clarke watching him. She tilts her head to the side as if to ask _what are you going to do?_ He lets out a silent sigh. What he should have done was track Murphy down a week ago and fixed things, but he can’t go back in time and regrets never got him anywhere. All he can do is try to make it right now, even if the thought of him around here, around Clarke, still makes his skin itch. 

“Okay,” Bellamy responds finally, a twinge of reluctance still in his tone. Clarke smiles at him encouragingly which, he'll admit, makes him feel better about it all. 

Octavia grins at him. “Great! They’ll be here in five.” 

Letting out a sigh, Bellamy looks back to Clarke who nods reassuringly at him. _It’s all going to be fine._ He turns back to his box, but it’s no use, his concentration is shot for the night. Faintly, he hears or rather feels Clarke come up behind him, but the sound of the door opening distracts him before he can talk to her. 

“We have food!” Raven cries in place of a greeting.

The boys let out a cheer, Jasper racing towards Raven to take the takeout bags with an excitement Bellamy will never get used to. Just as he starts to spread out the food around them all, Murphy slides in behind Raven, and an unsettling tension starts to fill the space. 

Raven looks around the room, taking in the chaos, “So...” 

She trails off uncertainty, looking from him to Clarke and back to him. The invisible weight between them all getting heavier by the second. 

“God Bell, introduce your girlfriend,” Octavia cries out in exasperation.

“O,” he growls out, refusing to allow his eyes to drift to Clarke. 

Octavia smirks at him, a smirk that he fears looks very similar to his own, “Friend, girlfriend, same difference from where I'm standing.” 

He just continues to glare at her. It is so far from the same thing. He doesn’t want— he _can’t_ have Clarke connected any closer to him then she already is. Octavia’s face starts to fall, realizing that he's actually upset and not just being his normally grumpy self. 

Taking a deep breath, he tries to get his nerves under control. He knew this was coming, he agreed to it happening; it would be unfair for him to lose his shit now. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy sees Clarke step around him towards the newcomers. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Clarke, Bellamy’s not girlfriend.” 

Raven grins at her, “Hey! I’m Raven, Bellamy’s sometimes friend.” 

Bellamy feels some of the weight on his shoulders start to lift, rolling his eyes at them. Murphy lets out a snort of amusement, and instantly, Bellamy’s attention is on him. Their eyes lock, it’s tense for a few seconds and then silent understanding passes between them. He’s not going to apologize and he’s positive Murphy isn’t going to either, but that’s fine. He nods his head at Murphy, signaling that they are good, a gesture which he returns quickly. 

“Are we all good now?” Raven asks sarcasm heavy in her voice, “Can everyone go back to being some kind of friends?” 

He looks at Murphy one more time, then to Clarke, then back to Raven. “Yup, we are good.” 

“Thank fuck,” she declares, “Let’s eat!” 

They all quickly follow her order and soon everything is back to normal, or at least whatever this new normal is. Jasper fills up his paper plate and then Octavia follows, both of them bickering over who can eat the most the quickest. Monty and Harper watch the two in thinly veiled disgust while Raven organizes the rules of the challenge. There’s Murphy too, sitting off to the side with his typical smirk, but there none the less. 

Clarke sits herself down on the ground beside him, not too close, but not that far away either. “You’ve got a good group here, Bellamy.” 

He looks around again. _Yeah he thinks he does._

*****

Part of Bellamy thought that they would all go away once school started up again. Between the work he has them doing and the fact that he makes sure they all attend at least the majority of their classes, he thought that they would be too busy. He was wrong, but surprisingly, he’s more than okay with it. He watches as they become more and more comfortable in Clarke’s space and doesn’t stop it, doesn’t want to, not after he sees how effortlessly Clarke fits into the group. 

Somehow, she fills a hole in their dynamic that he didn’t realize was missing. By some miracle, Octavia actually listens to her, and not in the begrudgingly spiteful way that she does him most of the time now. Moreover, she seems to value Clarke’s opinion in a way that’s different from how she interacts with either him or Raven. It still surprises him how quickly she’s opened up with Clarke considering the years it took her and Raven to establish the big sister dynamic they now have, but he’s not complaining. Especially not when he walks in one day and finds her sitting in the corner surrounded by textbooks. 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, shocked by the picture in front of him, and then once he does, it’s only some indistinguishable sound that comes out. 

“Don’t be weird,” she tells him without looking up. 

“Are you willingly doing homework, O?” he questions, not even trying to hide the pride in his voice. 

“What happened to not being weird?” she asks him with a huff and then more softly, “Clarke was talking about college...” she trails off like she wishes she hadn’t said anything, but then she squares her shoulders, the tough persona she insists on carrying around back, “and she didn’t make it sound boring like you.” 

When he mentions it to Clarke later, gratitude clear in his voice, she just shrugs and tells him it was nothing. He lets it go because it’s not a comfortable place for either of them to be, but what she did wasn’t nothing. 

He’d be happy enough if the effect was limited to Octavia, but it is not. Monty also seems much more talkative; more than once, Bellamy walks in on him, and Clarke having some complex biological discussion that he never has a hope of understanding. She even makes Murphy crack a smile, matching him jab for jab with sarcastic wit he didn’t know she had. 

By the time the end of September rolls around, he swears that they are spending more time at the clinic than him. It might be annoying, and really, it is sometimes, but then he’ll show up and Harper will be laughing in a way that he wasn’t sure was possible anymore and Jasper’s eyes won’t be glazed over, Raven won't be self-conscious of her brace. 

She takes care of them in a way that he’s never managed to, for all that he’s tried, but he’s not bitter about it. Instead, he’s just happy. This is everything he didn’t know to dream for. All in all, if he didn’t think she was perfect before, he’s certain she’s perfect now.


	4. Just one touch and I'd be in too deep now

Sometimes, Bellamy will just stop and marvel at how much his life has changed in not even a full six months. One of the delinquents will casually mention Clarke’s name, and he’ll pause for a moment, startled. Someone at work will ask him about his plans for the night, and the clinic will flash instantly across his mind. A cashier at the grocery store will try to flirt with him, but instead of feeling any temptation to return the interest, all he’ll see when they smile at him is Clarke’s face when she looks at him with that gleam in her eyes. 

Often doesn’t feel like his life; it doesn’t seem possible that he can have this type of happiness, but it is, and he does. That becomes abundantly clear when he walks into the clinic late one Thursday night, a few weeks into October and sees all of them, Octavia, Jasper, Monty, Harper, Raven, Murphy, and Clarke, sitting around the open room with empty pizza boxes spread out around them. 

He pauses to watch them for a moment, enjoying the easy happiness on their faces and the carefree way they interact with each other. Instinctively, his eyes find Clarke. She’s not in the center of the room, not even close to being the center of attention as far as he can tell, but she stands out to him like a beacon. She's sitting on the ground, her legs folded neatly beneath her, wearing another floral printed dress with her hair around her shoulders, listening with rapt attention to whatever story Jasper and Monty are taking turns telling. 

Loathe as he is to ruin the picture, his stomach rumbles at the thought of food while his heart longs to be part of the moment. The conversation stops for a moment when he walks in, but then he grabs a slice, takes a seat and it continues. His eyes wander over to Clarke again, having heard this story more times than he can count, only to find her already looking at him. She smiles at him, a different smile, he thinks than the one that she gives to the others, and his heart starts to race. He holds eye contact with her for a moment, before looking away, reminding himself to get a grip. 

They all stay for a while longer, each of them too comfortable to think about leaving until Raven makes a vague comment about having to be somewhere. He nods his head in understanding when she looks pointedly at him before walking out the door, indicating that it’s somewhere for him that she has to be. It sours his mood a little, the reminder of what his life actually is, but then Murphy gets up to follow after Raven with a raised eyebrow and a look between Clarke and him; a look which he chooses to ignore, scowling at his pizza. 

When he looks up again a few seconds later, it’s to hear the door opening as Octavia says goodbye which is more than enough to distract him from his depressing thoughts. Throwing his half eaten piece back into the box, Bellamy lets out a curse and chases after her. He finally catches up to her in the parking lot with just enough time to remind her that she needs to be back home by 10:00 before she gets into a car of a friend that he doesn’t actually recognize. 

By the time he returns, shaking his head and annoyed at the prospect of another fight when he gets home, everyone else is gone. Jasper and Monty apparently had business to attend to elsewhere, something he doesn’t even want to think about while Harper had wanted to get home to her dad, so it’s just the two of them. He looks around the room, so different from the orderly waiting room he saw the first time he walked in here and feels an odd sense of belonging. 

He’ll have to deal with Octavia later, Jasper and Monty too probably, but for now, he’s here with Clarke who’s smiling at him, and that might just be enough. Or at least it is until he looks around the room again, this time noticing the mess that they have made for what it is; something that has to be cleaned up, and lets out a fond sigh. He loves them all, he really does, but at some point it would be nice to not have to feel like he’s constantly picking up after them, metaphorically and literally. It would be nice _not_ to worry. 

“You know you can tell them to leave at any time,” he finally says, reaching down to grab a grease-stained paper plate and then another. _There were only seven of them eating, why the fuck are there dozens of empty strewn across this place._ He shakes his head in exasperation and grabs another, grabbing one of the empty bags and shoving the stack in his hand into it. 

“Why would I ever do that?” she responds, clearly amused. 

“Really, just tell them to get lost,” he says more emphatically, turning to look at Clarke again on;y to find her sitting on the top of the reception desk, her legs swinging back and forth in the air, “They are a bunch of slobs.” 

“Maybe, but I’ve got you to clean up after them,” she teases. 

Bellamy looks down and spots the nearly bulging takeout bag in his hands, only just realizing that he’s spent the last ten minutes meticulously cleaning. Tying the bag closed, he tosses it by the door and turns back to her. “Fuck it.” 

She lets out a laugh, throwing her head back in joy, and he feels a burst of pride at being the one to elicit that reaction. 

“Come join me,” she suggests. There's a suggestive tilt to her voice that implies so much more than the simple offer suggests, but like always he chooses to ignore it. 

Grabbing his drink off of the magazine table, he makes his way over to her and then positions himself so that he’s leaning against the desks, on elbow resting on the top a few inches from her thigh. This close, the edge of her barefoot brushes up against his jean-clad leg every time she swings them. It’s torture, the best kind, but torture all the same. 

Her foot lands a little heavier against him, dragging slowly across his thigh in a way that he knows it completely purposeful, and he starts to feel like he might actually lose his mind if he stays here; he stays, sucking in a harsh breath in the hope that it will help alleviate some of the tension building inside of him, but it only makes it worse. 

All he can smell is her; flowers and sunshine, hope and peace, she’s everywhere, assaulting his senses like a foreign invader. 

He looks over at her, only to find that she was already looking at him. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly, reminding him just how much he loves the cut of her dress. 

The urge to close the distance between them is as strong as ever. _Fuck._ He needs to back away, now before he loses all his will power. He closes his eyes to block the sight of her from his mind, but the image of him stepping between her legs and pulling her flush against him that plays across his closed lids, is so much more dangerous. 

When he opens his eyes a few seconds later, he’s honestly not sure what he’s going to do. He'd like to think that he was planning on taking a step back, to put some much needed distance between them, but inside, he knows that the opposite was much more likely. 

Luckily, she is once again his saving grace. When he opens his eyes, she’s farther away, not a lot, but enough, sitting fully on the desk with her legs underneath her. The fire is still there, the burn beneath his skin, but now, it’s manageable. He clears his throat, mouth usually dry, and tries to remember what they were talking about before he got lost in her. 

The flush lingering across her skin is distracting, as well the way she’s still looking at him. He tilts his head in question, it was her who pulled away. He's under no delusions that the move was for his benefit, but she made the move and her attitude now seems counterproductive to it. 

She just smirks at him as if to say _I’m kind, but I’m not that nice_ , which he knows is a total joke, she _is_ that nice, but he’s not going to question it. At this point, he’ll take whatever mercy she’s offering. 

“You can tell them all to leave if you need to get some work done.” His voice is rougher than it should be when he finally lands on their original discussion, especially since he doesn't even really know what the fuck that was, but thankfully she ignores it. 

“They help me get work done—” at his look of disbelief, she continues more emphatically, sitting up straighter. “They do! Harper has been helping me organize files, Octavia and Monty have been going through all the stuff that was here when I got the building, Jasper is great with patients, Raven helped me fix the computer system.” 

“And how exactly has Murphy been helping?” he asks with amusement. 

“Murphy keeps the rats away,” she answers with a straight face before breaking out in laughter. He feels a chuckle escape, watching the pure joy radiating off of her. After a while, she calms down and continues, voice softer, “Plus, I like having them here... it’s less lonely.” 

He watches her fiddle with a non-existent loose thread on her sweater, clearly uncomfortable with the confession, unsure of what to say. It's not a total surprise to him that she’s lonely; in the months he’s known her, she’s mentioned one friend, Wells, a couple of times and only made a few vague references to her parents. It makes sense, but it doesn’t. 

If she wanted friends, he’s positive that she could go to any bar, hell, any coffee shop and instantly have a group of admirers. With her personality, and if he’s blunt, her looks, she could have her pick of anyone. Why then does she choose his band of delinquents? It's a question that continues to weigh on his mind, but it’s not one that he has the guts to ask her. 

At least not now. 

Instead, he searches his mind for a topic change, and fortunately, he comes up with one quickly. And as an added bonus, it’s something that he’s been meaning to talk to her about anyways. “If they are going to be hanging around, you need to start locking up the medical supplies.” 

She rolls her eyes in exasperation, the shyness of her revelation, replaced by a fond smile. “They are kids, Bellamy, practically your kids.” 

Like always, he’s tempted to argue, to remind her that they aren’t any normal teenagers and he’s not some Good Samaritan father figure to them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he plays into it, “Okay, if you believe that they are practically my kids then trust me when I tell you that you need to start locking up the medical supplies.” 

Her lips thin together in a way that he knows means she thinks he’s being ridiculous, but he doesn’t let it bother him. He keeps his eyes locked on her, until eventually, with a reluctance to protect herself that he still doesn’t understand, she nods.

*****

The next time that he shows up at the clinic it’s surprisingly empty. Not that he’d expect there to be hordes of patients waiting to be seen on a Wednesday night in the middle of October, but he expected to find at least one of the gang to be here. In the two months since Octavia decided to force her way into his life here, he can count on one hand the number of times none of them have been here when he showed up and they almost all correlate to school hours.

While it occasionally gets tiresome, having them around all the time, he doesn’t have much to complain about. So far, they seem to have recognized the imposition they might be causing and almost always leave early enough that he and Clarke get a bit of time alone. _Maybe that’s what tonight’s absence is about,_ he considers as he opens the door. 

Blatantly, he reminds himself that there’s no reason he should be seeking out alone time with Clarke, but it never seems to make any lasting impact. He drops the bags of takeout he brought with him down onto the table in the front room and then continues to the back room where he can see the lights on. 

“Oh shit, sorry,” he exclaims when he walks into the room and finds her standing without a shirt on. 

Decorum dictates that he should turn around, at the very least cover his eyes. His self-preservation instincts tell him to get out of there, but he doesn't listen to either of them, the expanse of milky skin on display too enticing to look away from. He traces her form with his eyes, noting every little mark and curve of her back to commit them to memory. 

She looks over her shoulder at him, a smirk forming on her face when she catches him watching. “It’s fine, stay.” 

A groan escapes him. It’s not the first time she’s made a proposition of that nature to him, not by a long shot, but they are happening more often now and each time he feels his resistance weaken. “This is a dangerous game we’re playing.” 

“Are you finally going to play it then?” she asks, turning around to face him with no regard for modesty. She’s still wearing a bra, a plain-looking one at that. It shouldn’t be that exciting, he’s seen bathing suits that reveal more, but it’s clear from the tightening in his chest that it’s everything he wants. Or maybe she’s just everything he wants. 

“Clarke,” he groans again in place of an answer. 

“Bellamy,” she responds playfully. 

He closes his eyes, willing himself to have strength. It’s a bad idea, he knows it’s a bad idea, but that doesn’t seem to matter, the pull to go to her, to wrap her up in his arms and never let go, is almost too strong for him to resist. _Maybe he shouldn’t resist,_ he thinks a little desperately. He keeps telling her that anything more between them would be a mistake, and she doesn’t seem to believe him; _maybe he needs to show her._

_Just once,_ he bargains with himself, _once to show her all that he is, to make her understand._ One time to break this tension between them for good. 

Even with the bargain made, doubts still plague his mind as he opens his eyes. She's still in the same spot, except now her arms are crossed, doing sinful things to her chest. There's heat in her gaze which he feels burn against his skin, but underneath it is an insecurity that breaks his heart. She has to know that it’s him who is the problem and not her. 

It's that twinge of something breaking through her normally steady confidence that finally has him moving. He can fight attraction, wrestle with desire, but the minute his heart gets involved it’s all over. And then once he starts there’s no holding back. 

He closes the distance between them in two large steps, tangling his hand in her hair like he’s been tempted to since nearly the moment he saw her. There’s only a brief second for him to note the pleased surprise on her face and then he’s leaning down to join their lips. 

A spark shoots through him the moment they touch, every nerve coming alive and a feeling of inherent rightness overtaking him like he’s in some fucking fairy tale. In his mind, he can picture a wave of magic shooting out from around them, the birds singing merrily in the background, a perfect happily ever after kiss. It's so good, so sweet, that he’s tempted to stay there, with his lips just brushing against hers in the barest hint of a kiss, but then he remembers what he’s supposed to be showing her here. 

Sweet half kisses aren’t him. He's not kind and gentle and good. He takes what he wants, demands it really. That’s who he is so that’s what he does. Pushing closer, he starts to move his mouth greedily against hers; asking for more, taking it. 

His hand glides against her bareback, enjoying the feel of her silky skin under his fingertips, dancing around the clasp of her bra. It takes her a few seconds, and then she’s matching his movements, meeting his intensity with her own fever. Their mouths move together, a messy rhythm that sends a shot of arousal straight through him. His heart hammers in his chest, feeling like it might burst out of him at any moment; his lungs burn with the need for oxygen, making his mind hazy, but still, he pushes for more. He’s not holding back here. 

Pressing his teeth into her lip, he bites down on the tender flesh. She lets out a startled gasp, which he takes advantage of instantly, continuing relentlessly on his mission to devour her. Then before she can catch her breath, he’s pushing her backward with his body, step by step until she’s trapped between him and the counter. 

She throws her head back, arching away from him, and he thinks that he’s done it, that he’s finally made her realize the man that he truly is inside. He's about to step back, no amount of adrenaline or desire within him enough to ever push her into doing something she’s uncomfortable with, but she moves before he has the chance, jumping so that she’s sitting on the edge of the counter. With the next second, she has her arms around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair, and her legs around his hips, effectively holding him in place.

The move lines up their bodies perfectly and he’s thrusting his hips forward before he even has a chance to consider fighting the impulse. The guttural moan that she lets out at the contact banishes any other thought of stopping. He wants this; she wants this. Nothing else matters. 

He kisses across her jaw and then down her neck, trying not to miss a single place in his explorations. He can feel the rapid beat of her heart, see the flush of her skin, and it empowers him. He lavishes every spot with his mouth, a taste of what’s to come. 

One of her hands stays in his hair, holding him in place while the other travels down his shoulders and across his back until she’s able to slip it under his shirt. The contrast of her cold hands against his heated flesh as she explores the contours of his body, sends him deeper into a tailspin. 

There’s roaring in his ears, his heartbeat thumps loudly in time to hers. He’s lost control of the situation. Really, he’s not sure he ever had it to start with, or if she only let him think he had it, but the notion of it all seems trivial, especially when he feels her trying to tug his shirt over his head. The thought of moving even an inch away seems incomprehensible, but she’s persistent, letting out a sound somewhere between a moan and a groan which finally convinces him of the urgency. 

Leaning back, she quickly removes the garment while he admires the dark spot blooming on her skin. She catches his eye, grinning, but before he can get his brain to form actual words, she’s pulling him closer, kissing him with a vigor and a passion that he never would have expected. One that he should have, though, if he had, even for a second, allowed himself to consider a moment like this being an actual possibility. 

Her legs tighten around him more, pulling him so close that he’s not sure where he ends and she begins. It’s too much, but also not even close to enough at the same time. 

He kisses her harder, trying to be everything he feels into the movement. The heel of her shoe digs into his lower back, and he knows she wants more. He wants it too, but instead, he focuses on the moment, on her and the sounds she makes. 

His hand slides up and down her spine, teasing the edge of her waistband a little more every time. So close; so far away. 

Somehow, her bra lands in a heap between them, failing to the ground without either of them giving a thought to where it lands, and then suddenly, there’s new skin to explore. His hands move back and forthcoming, unable to decide where to land. 

There’s so many possibilities, and never enough time. But he has now, and he’s going to use that to his full advantage. He moves slowly, methodically, leaning what makes her squirm, what makes her moan, what produces that breathy little sound which he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing.

She overwhelms his senses; everything around him, his entire world, narrows down to her and he wouldn’t have it any other way, She slides her hand between them to work on his belt. He leans into her touch, desperate for it. He craves the feel of her unlike anything else.Or at least he thinks that he does until she’s got the belt free from the loops of his pants and is reaching for his zipper. 

The fog suddenly clears from his brain; his eyes snap open. It’s not like a bucket of cold water because he still wants her just as much as before, but he isn’t ruled by that need any longer. The desperation is gone. In fact, quenching that need at the cost of everything he already has, now seems incredibly foolish, 

He pulls back reluctantly, just enough to see her face; just enough for her to see his face, for her to know that he’s not angry, not upset. Her eyes are bright despite the obvious arousal in them, her hair is a sexy mess from his fingers, her cheeks adorned with a pretty pink flush. His eyes land on her lips, red and swollen from kissing him. Before he can stop himself, his hand is raised, his thumb tracing the edge of them, mesmerized. 

The corners of her lips turn up. Then when his thumb passes over her bottom lip again, she opens her mouth and bites down not so gently on the digit. 

_Fuck,_ he thinks overwhelmed by the woman in front of him, _what is he doing?_

Eventually, the hesitation on his face must register because she suddenly turns more serious. “I want this, Bellamy, I want you.” 

“I’m afraid you don't know what that actually means,” he confesses softly, pressing his lips into the skin of her hand. “I’m not who you think I am, Clarke,”

She hums in contemplation, looking at him closely and then reaches out to run her hands through his hair in a comforting gesture he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before. He lets out a sigh of contentment, looking down, at war with himself. He keeps them closed until she gently pulls on the strands so that he’s compelled to look at her. “Maybe you should just trust that I can handle whatever comes.” 

He can see the sincerity in her face, can tell that she truly believes what she’s saying, but is that enough? Does it matter what she thinks when he knows that she’s out of her depth here? Ultimately, the question is whether he is selfish enough to risk her. Which he is, no doubt about that, but does he want to be that person with her? 

Absentmindedly, he pushes a strand of hair out of her face, the blond hairs curling in straight into her eye. His fingers linger on her face, but his attention remains on her eyes; they are clear now, blue and oh so innocent looking, telling him that everything is going to be alright. He wants to believe her, to believe in her like he hasn’t in anyone or anything else. 

And maybe that’s the key. Maybe that’s the answer he needs to make what he’s doing here not totally unforgivable. He can’t trust himself, but he trusts her. That could be enough to keep this from blowing up in both of their faces. Hopefully. 

It’s a gamble, a chance, and that fucking terrifies him. He doesn’t take chances; he plays it safe, walks a very careful line, knowing that life is all too likely to want to push him over, but that’s because nothing ever seemed worth the risk before. He thinks she could be worth the risk. 

Decision made, he leans forward to kiss her, moving slowly with the faint hope that she’ll come to her senses and tell him to stop before he gets there. He’s on the edge of a cliff, and once he falls, he fears there’s no coming back. He knows there’s no coming back. 

He hovers a fraction away from her, so close that he can taste each of her breaths on his lips. He stays there waiting, willing himself to close the distance, to take the plunge, but also willing himself to hold back, to keep her safe; to keep himself safe. 

In the end, she takes the decision out of his hands, making the final move. Their lips press together, and it is impossibly better than any of the kisses that came before. The sweetness of the first brush, combining with the fire from later to create an indescribable feeling. 

His entire world narrows down to her again, but this time he doesn’t even try to fight the pull. He relishes the feel of her nails against his skin, the sound of their ragged breathing in his ear, the taste of her on his lips, so much sweeter than he could have ever imagined. He loses himself in the moment, a different kind of pleasure taking hold when she wraps her legs around him and pulls him close.

*****

“So how long exactly did you wait with your shirt off?” he teases Clarke later that night, his shirt now draped across her frame, and the cold takeout he brought with him scattered around them.

She twists her body to jab him in the ribs with her bony elbow, and he lets out an unrestrained laugh, taking her silence as enough of an answer. When he looks down at her, she’s glaring at him, but it is overshadowed by the bright grin on her face. A grin that he’s sure is firmly planted on his face as well. 

He didn’t think it could be like this, not for him at least, but he seems to have been wrong. It’s easy between them, comfortably. For the first time in his life, he’s content to linger, to talk, and for god's sake, _cuddle_. 

When he’d returned to her with the bag of food in his hand, he didn’t take his customary seat, leaning back against the opposite wall. Instead, he had positioned himself right beside her, not leaving an inch of space. Then when she leaned into his side, he’d simply wrapped his arm around her, welcoming the embrace. He wanted the intimacy, he craved it even. 

Part of him expected it to be awkward, for her to ask things of him that he’s not sure he’s capable of giving, even with everything, but she hasn’t. For the most part, it’s been the same as always except now he has the bonus of getting to touch her whenever he wants. 

“There was a perfectly logical explanation.” 

“Ah huh,” he responds, playing with her hair where it hangs down her back. 

“I spilled coffee on the shirt.” 

“Of course.” 

“Shut up,” she says laughing, “I did! I’ll show you!” 

She starts to get up off the floor, but he wraps his arm more firmly around her waist, not ready to let her go. 

“Are you going to let me go?” she asks with amusement, leaning down, and turning her head to look at him, her hair falling in a curtain behind her. 

“No.” He increases his hold, pulling gently until she lands on his lap. 

“I really spilled coffee on it,” she tells him earnestly. 

With her straddling him in nothing but his old T-shirt, he couldn’t care less about the how of everything, but it seems to matter to her so he forces his mind to focus. He looks into her eyes, prettier this closeup than he could have ever imagined. “I believe you.” 

He traces the edge of her jaw, once again amazed that this is his new reality while she fiddles with the button of his pants. She looks back up at him, and she takes his breath away. 

“I just might not have rushed to put my spare scrub top on when I heard you come in,” she adds on with a smirk. 

He lets out a huff of air, a laugh both at her revelation and at the satisfaction on her face. “I knew it! You were totally looking to jump me.” 

“Of course, I was!” she tells him unabashedly, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning closer. There’s something almost magical about the moment, the stillness to the air, he thinks as he settles his hands on her hips; a move that already feels familiar. She smirks at him, “Someone had to make the first move.” 

When he closes the distance to kiss her, he’s overcome with gratitude. He’s so glad she did.

*****

Despite his best intentions, Bellamy doesn’t manage to make it back to the clinic for a few days. He thinks about calling, he has had her number in his phone for months, but it just doesn’t feel right; texting, calling, it’s not something they have ever done, and he’s not sure he suddenly wants to change that even if the urge to talk to her is almost always present. Instead, he runs around, trying to get everything done, in the hopes that eventually, he will have time to see her.

As the days pass, part of him expects regret to hit hard. After all, he fucked up, he wasn’t supposed to let it get this far, but instead, he just feels a sense of peace. It might have been the wrong move, it probably was, but he’s made it, and there’s no purpose in dwelling on it now. Wishing things had been different has never gotten him anywhere. 

There’s also the fact that he just doesn’t want to regret her, what she’s offered him, or what they shared. He doesn’t know if it will continue, he hopes that it will, thinks that she wants it to, but he doesn’t know. Yet, even if it was just the once, he can be satisfied. Probably. Maybe.

A strange mixture of excitement and nerves hits him the moment he pulls up to the clinic, stronger than even the second time he was here. Logically, he knows this isn’t a make or break moment, she’s not going to suddenly want nothing to do with him, but as he opens the door and steps inside, he can’t help but feel like it is. 

“Hey,” he says when he sees her for a lack of something else better to say, and instantly starts cursing internally. He's supposed to be cooler than this. He is cooler than this, just apparently not where she’s concerned. 

“You’re such a dork,” he hears Octavia say, but his entire focus is still locked on Clarke. She looks pleased to see him, a happy flush covering her face. It feels him with relief; he wasn't worried, not really, but still. Honestly, it’s just nice to see her.

_Hi,_ she mouths back to him, and for a second, he’s mesmerized by her lips. She's got lipstick on today, something that while not unheard of, is not altogether common either. He gets lost thoughts of her and him with far fewer clothes, the deep red being smeared all over. 

When he looks back at her, she bites down on her bottom lip, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, and a flirty look in her eye. He lets a grin spread across his face, and the flush on her skin darkens. 

“A dork,” Murphy cuts in, “more like a—” 

“Shut up, Murphy,” he commands automatically, but it’s unnecessary. Someone, probably Raven, has cut him off. There is a thud, and then a curse, Murphy cursing Raven and then Raven cursing Murphy. 

It's only then that he looks around to see who’s gathered. 

Octavia sits on one of the small tables, Murphy and Raven are both on the ground. “No Monty or Jasper?” he asks everyone, but he finds himself looking to Clarke for the answer. 

“Monty was going to the library to work on a project,” she tells him, “and Jasper had _plans_.” 

“Plans?” Bellamy questions. rising his eyebrows, a grin forming on his face. Clarke just shrugs with a matching grin like she doesn’t know anything more than him so he turns his attention to Octavia. If there’s anyone who would know, it would be her. 

“I’m not saying anything,” she tells them, raising her hands, but the sparkle in her eye tells him that she definitely knows something 

“O,” he starts to say, hoping to wrangle some information out of her, but then he notices that she’s wearing her coat. “Why are you wearing your coat?” 

“I’m not staying.” She stands up and starts making her way to the door, stopping to give Clarke a half hug when she passes, “I just wanted to see your reaction when you walked in.” 

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly while Clarke laughs in the background. 

“It was totally worth it by the way,” she adds on, wrapping a scarf around her neck. 

“Where are you going?” Bellamy asks casually, making his way closer to Clarke 

“I’ve got plans,” she tells him with a devilish smirk. 

Instantly, he freezes. “O.” 

She laughs like she got the exact reaction she wanted, “Relax, I’m just meeting some friends.” 

While she says it like it’s nothing, the gleam stays in her eye. It's the gleam, he doesn’t trust. “Octavia,” he warns as she continues to move towards the door. 

“Clarke, tell him to calm down.” 

Faintly, he feels Clarke move beside him and then rest her hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, but almost against his will, he can feel his muscles relaxing. Octavia notes that change which only proves to annoy him more. “Make sure you are home by 10!” 

The only indication that she heard him is the cheeky thumbs up she flashes at him through the window, but he forces himself to let it go. At least mostly. He turns to Clarke, silently asking if she knows what that is about. She shakes her head a little, apparently just as clueless as him. The thought doesn’t bring him any comfort. 

“I guess you want us gone,” Murphy says in that way of his, interrupting their silent conversation. 

He's done this for as long as Bellamy has known him, even if he didn’t recognize it for what it was at the start. Assuming the worst of people so they don’t disappoint him is Murphy’s go-to move, but it’s bullshit, and he’s not going to stand for it. Just as he’s about to tell Murphy to shut up and sit back down, Clarke beats him to it, reading the young man just as easily. 

“Stop being dramatic,” she tells him, rolling her eyes, “I’ve hardly seen you recently.” 

“Aw did you miss me?” he asks Clarke, playing up the part, “I can’t say I’d blame you, why would you want to spend the evening with Blake when you’ve got me around.” 

“Oh no, you can go,” she tells Murphy flippantly, “it’s Raven, I miss.” 

The two girls high five, grinning at the scowl on Murphy’s face while he pulls his phone out to order some food. After that, things really aren’t that different, which eases the rest of the tension he didn’t know was there off his shoulders. He can do this, he can be friends with her, have a little more on the side, while keeping the worst parts of his life away from her. He can have her like this, and still keep her safe.


	5. Trace the moment, fall forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this is late. I looked out the window and was like oh, it’s dark out, then I was like shit, it’s Tuesday, which is a pretty accurate picture of how my life operates at all times. 
> 
> I hope you like the chapter; let me know what you think!

“Hi, do you know where I could find Clarke?” Bellamy hears a young man ask faintly in the background, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, focused on the novel in his hands. 

Over the last few weeks, he and Clarke have settled into a nice routine, not that different from how everything was before. More often than not, he still spends his free time here, just now, when everyone else leaves for the night, sometimes she follows him home. Occasionally, he’ll get to the clinic, and she’ll still be busy, whether because he’s managed to slip away from work a little early or because flu season and winter have hit their town hard, and she doesn’t have the heart to turn people away even when she should. 

Today is one of those days. He'd walked in to find the small waiting room still more than half full despite the fact that it’s nearly seven and she should have been finished hours ago. For a second, he considered checking on her, maybe trying to convince her to tell some of these people to come back tomorrow, but in the end, he just let out a sigh, shaking his head at her goodness and went to take the seat he currently resides in. 

He probably should have gone to look at the radiator. While it’s not uncomfortably cold here today, the fact that it’s working is more of a fluke than anything. Still, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. After the day he had, putting out on fire after another, trying to pull everything together before they run out of time, he just wants to relax. He'd rather be relaxing with her, but he’s not going to complain that she’s busy helping people. 

“Excuse me?” Bellamy hears the same voice ask again, and it’s only then that he realizes that the initial question was directed at him. He looks up to see the man standing in front of him, or rather in front of the reception desk. 

“Oh right,” he responds, placing his book down and sitting up straighter, trying to put on an air of friendliness that simply doesn’t come naturally to him when dealing with anyone over the age of ten. “What can I help you with?” 

“I’m looking for Clarke,” the man repeats kindly despite the fact that Bellamy spent a good few minutes oblivious to his presence. 

Bellamy looks around the space, noticing for the first time that it’s empty save for him and the man in front of him. “She should be out soon,” he starts to answer, looking towards the old clock on the wall, his resolve growing when he sees that it’s nearly nine, “but you should come back tomorrow, she can help you then.” 

“Oh no,” the man responds with a chuckle, rubbing his hands against his dress pants, “I’m not here for—” 

“Look, man,” Bellamy cuts him off, hardening his gaze, “it’s late, she’s been working nonstop for hours and it’s time for her to stop. She’ll be happy to help you tomorrow, but now, she’s going to stop, sit down, and have some dinner.” 

To his astonishment, the man’s smile grows and his eyes which moments before looked tired, start to sparkle. _What the hell is he dealing with here?_ Bellamy is about to stand up, hoping that his imposing figure is enough to get whoever this man is to leave when he hears the familiar sound of Clarke’s heels coming towards them. 

He lets out a nearly silent sigh, knowing that there’s no way she won’t insist on checking the new patient out once she’s seen him. He glares a little stronger, using it as a last-ditch effort to try and get him to leave before she appears, but it’s too late. He can almost sense her presence as she enters the space despite the fact that his back is turned. 

Closing his eyes, Bellamy reminds himself to have patience. He likes that she wants to help people; it’s a good quality, and not one he wants to diminish with his presence. 

“Wells?” Clarke asks surprised, coming to a sudden stop a few steps behind him. 

Bellamy opens his eyes, and the man is grinning brighter than before. He locks eyes with Bellamy for a second before turning his attention to Clarke. “Did you miss me?” he asks teasingly. 

“Yes!” she responds enthusiastically, hurrying over to them to wrap her arms around the man— Wells, in a hug. “I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it out until Christmas! Is Lisa with you?” 

“No, she’s back at home with Ellie. I had something come up last minute...” Wells answers vaguely, leaning into the embrace, “anyways, I was here, so I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to see this place. Wow, it actually looks like a building now!” 

“That’s all thanks to Bellamy,” Clarke says, turning to look at him for the first time, glee not quite like he’s ever seen on her face. “Did you two meet?” she asks and then before either of them can answer she continues, excitement radiating off her, “Bellamy this is my best friend Wells.” 

“Yeah,” Bellamy answers, rubbing a hand through his hair, “I’ve got that now.” 

Wells laughs good-naturedly, tossing his arm over Clarke’s shoulders, “He was trying to get me to leave you alone. Told me in no uncertain terms to come back tomorrow.” 

“Bellamy,” she says in exasperation, but he can see the happiness in her eyes when she looks at him, “are you scaring people off again?” 

“When was the last time you stopped to eat?” he asks, bypassing her lighthearted reprimand. 

Her lips thin into a line telling him that he was right in his assumption. He grins at her, and she shakes her head at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy sees Wells look down at Clarke. 

“Well, he’s got you there,” Wells tells Clarke, probably seeing the same thing he did. 

“I'm fine,” she tells both of them with an eye roll. Bellany looks to Wells, and they share matching looks of disbelief, “I will eat something as soon as I’m finished.” She steps out of Wells' embrace, “Which will be in a few minutes.” 

“I should probably go,” Bellamy says reaching for his coat where he’d tossed it earlier, “let you two catch up.” 

“No,” Clarke says so quickly he looks at her in surprise, “stay. We can all have dinner.” 

She bites her lip while she waits for him to answer as though she’s not sure if he’ll want to stay, which he doesn’t understand. The reality is that he never really wants to be anywhere else other than with her. Still, he’s not keen on interrupting their reunion. He looks over to Wells to see how he feels and receives a small nod in reply. 

“Okay, guess I’m staying.” 

Smiling at him, she walks to his side of the desk and then reaches to grab a file, resting her hand against his arm while she digs. “Great. You two entertain each other, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

There are a few seconds of awkwardness once she leaves them, but Wells pushes past it quickly enough, sharing Clarke's seemingly inherent ability to successfully navigate awkward situations. It's a type of natural charisma that Bellamy has just never seemed to conquer. 

“So, you’re Bellamy,” Wells says, looking him up and down with a new appreciation, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Shoving his hands into his pants, Bellamy forces himself to not shy away from the appraisal. “Yeah, me too,” he responds, over exaggerating for the sake of politeness. He does at least know who Wells is, which is more than he can say about most parts of Clarke’s life, and now that he’s looking more intently, he realizes that he should have recognized him from the picture in Clarke’s office. It’s not a total lie. 

Silence settles between them, and Bellamy starts to shift uncomfortably, fully conscious of how different they look; him standing there in a pair of ripped jeans and a worn flannel while Wells is adorned in a crisp dress shirt and what he can only assume is finely tailored dress pants. He spots the wedding ring shining brightly in his left hand, another clear sign of not only his wealth, but also of just how much he has his life together. Wells has a wife, and by the sounds of it a child, whereas he cannot even comfortably think of Clarke as a girlfriend. 

Yet, as Bellamy considers all the ways in which they look different, he can’t help but also notice that with Clarke gone they have the same tired look in their eye. 

“You and Clarke...” Wells starts to say, before pausing to consider his thoughts. 

Instinctively, Bellamy starts to deny that there even is a him and Clarke; not because he’s ashamed or anything, far from it, but because it just seems safer. He stops himself though, Wells is her friend, her family, probably the person she’s closest to in a way that invokes none of the jealous feelings he had the first time she mentioned him. All of that put together not only means that he likely already knows all about them, but also that he deserves better than for Bellamy to plainly lie to his face. 

“You don’t need to tell me how lucky I am, or give me any warnings,” Bellamy rushes to say before Wells can finish thinking, needing to get through it before he loses his nerve, “Trust me, I know how crazy it looks. I’m not going to screw it up.” 

Wells looks up at him startled, Bellamy is sort of startled himself, he doesn’t normally say that much around new people. Hell, around familiar people either. 

“No, that’s not what—” Wells squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath like he’s finally got his thoughts in order, “I was actually just thinking how good you are for her. How lucky she was to find you.” 

“You’re fucking with me, right?” 

Laughing, Wells seems to get some lightness back into him that left with Clarke. “No, I’m not. You’re good for her. You balance her out.” 

“But she’s perfect and I’m...” he trails off unsure of what to say. Or rather, unsure if he wants to say what he was thinking. _She's perfect and I’m me._ In some sick way, he guesses that it makes sense; her inherent goodness would balance out his cynicism, but he can’t see how that trade off could ever be considered good for her. 

“She’s not perfect,” Wells responds solemnly, a twinge of a shadow coming back into his eye, “she’s my very best friend in the world, practically my sister, and I’d do anything for her, but she’s not perfect, not like you think she is.” 

He looks at the seriousness on Wells' face and feels the urge to laugh himself. It all seems like a bad joke. He’s spent hundreds of hours with her by now and each one of them has proven time and time again that she is actually as perfect as she seems. 

“No one is perfect,” Wells tells him softly, a certain air of wisdom and sadness in his tone that Bellamy doesn’t expect to find. 

“Okay,” Bellamy responds with a huff, feeling a desperate need to make him see what he sees, to make him understand, “but she’s pretty damn close,” 

Wells just looks at him, and for a moment Bellamy feels like he is looking straight into his soul. It's different from how Clarke looks at him, there’s no fire, just calm, clear understanding. He braces himself, not at all sure that he’s going to like what the young man has to say to him, but he need not have worried. The thoughtful look fades away, or maybe just retreats, and the tension inside him dissipates. Clarke comes back out a few seconds later, and it’s like the heaviness was never there in the first place.

*****

Surprisingly, it is actually Bellamy who brings Miller to the clinic a few weeks later. He seems like the last piece, the only element from his pre-Clarke life that hasn’t migrated over and that seems unfair to his supposed best friend. Plus, every day, the temperature is dropping, and after the mess he made trying to fix up her water system, he’s smart enough to not even attempt to update her heating system alone. He can fix a lot of things, but there are undoubtedly some that he shouldn’t.

When they pull up to the clinic, in Miller’s truck instead of his, the small parking lot is nearly full, and a quick glance inside tells him that the waiting room is even more packed. He spots Harper behind the desk talking to people, and Monty beside her with a book in his hand. 

He catches Monty’s eye as they pass through the waiting room, but doesn’t make any motion to stop. With a crowd like these, Clarke won’t have time to see him for a while, and he can trust Monty to pass his appearance on to her when she gets a moment. Plus, seeing her isn’t even the objective of today. 

“This really isn’t that bad,” Miller tells him once they have got the paneling all open, “it’s not the latest, but it should work well enough.” 

“It randomly stops,” Bellamy responds stubbornly to which Miller just looks at him with a knowing gleam in his eye, “it does! And it’s cold in here!” 

Miller just continues to watch him with thinly veiled amusement. 

“Fuck off,” Bellamy says, but there’s no actual heat to his words. not much. 

The reality is that the list of improvements to be completed that seemed so long a few months ago, has pretty much run out. Actually, it ran out weeks ago, but he’s kept adding to it, not ready to give up the excuse to be here as often as he is. Not that he really needs an excuse, at least, he doesn’t think he does, but he’s too much of a coward to test the theory out. If he was smarter, he would have paced himself more, stretched the work out. He just never thought that he’d still want to be here as much as he does nearly six months later. 

“Okay, okay,” Miller relents with a grin, “we will fix it all up to your ridiculous standards.” 

With how busy it appears to be, he’s not surprised that she doesn’t make it out to see him until they are well on their way to putting the new hardware in. 

“Oh, you have a friend!” Bellamy looks over towards the door and spots Clarke, a mug balanced carefully in each hand. 

“You don’t need to sound so surprised,” Bellamy grumbles good-naturedly, stepping forward to take his normal mug from her. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says in exasperation, staring up at him with mirth in her eyes. He can tell that she’s been busy, her hair isn’t quite as neat, but her smile is bigger than normal. 

“You totally did,” Miller interjects, “and it’s awesome.” 

Bellamy looks at Miller laughing at his expense, “This man is definitely not my friend.” 

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Blake,” Miller is quick to respond, “You know you love me.” Bellamy just shakes his head knowing the truth behind the accusation even if he’s never going to admit it. 

These last few hours have reminded Bellamy just how much he values his friendship with the other man. It hasn’t always been easy, especially since he has a tendency to be an asshole, but Miller has stuck by him for over a decade. 

Clarke looks down at the other mug in her hand, before handing it over to Miller, “I hope you like sugar.” 

“I love it, thanks,” Miller says enthusiastically, taking a sip. He obverses Clarke over the rim of the cup, and Bellamy feels nerves gather in the pit of his stomach, unsure of what he’s going to say. “So, I take it you’re the reason he’s been less grumpy over the last few months?” 

“Who, Bellamy, moody? No never,” Clarke responds, grinning. He lets out a groan, but it’s mostly for show, having the two of them get along is everything he could have asked for. His happiness only grows when he catches Clarke’s eye and sees a twinkle. 

“I’m Clarke.,” she says, focusing her attention back on Miller, “Bellamy is notoriously bad at understanding how introductions work.” 

He rolls his eyes, grinning at the call back to their first encounter. 

“Nate,” Miller responds, offering his hand in greeting. 

“Nate?” Bellamy questions with a laugh, “Since when are you Nate?” 

“I’m Nate when I’m not around riff-raff like you,” he jokes. Bellamy laughs along with Clarke, but it doesn’t sound quite genuine, the jab landing a little too close to home. 

“How do you two know each other,” Clarke asks before an awkward tension can settle over. 

Following her lead, Miller takes the subject change in stride with nothing but a curious glance in his direction. “We work together.” 

Clarke looks at him with a question on her face. “At his Dad’s construction company,” Bellamy clarifies for her. 

“Oh! You actually work in construction!” she remarks in surprise. 

“I’ve been doing renovations here for months,” he tells her with amusement, suddenly feeling lighter “did you think I was just randomly nailing things together?” 

“I didn’t know!” she responds with a laugh, “It’s not like I could tell if it was right.” She looks him up and down and then shrugs, “You seemed to know what you were doing.” 

“Yeah that about sums it up,” Miller interjects, forcing him to drag his eyes away from Clarke, “He keeps fixing things so we keep him around.” 

Bellamy just rolls his eyes. While that may have been the case years and years ago when Miller Sr. offered a scrawny 14-year-old him a job, it’s far from the truth now. He’s confident in the benefit he brings to the company, confident enough that he can snap back with no remorse. “Nah, they keep me around to fix all of your fuck ups.” 

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Blake,” Miller responds with all the attitude he’s come to expect. 

When he looks back over to Clarke, never able to keep his eyes away from her for long, she’s grinning at the two of them. He fights off the urge to step closer to her, to wrap his arm around her waist and trail his lips down her neck. 

There’s a gleam in her eye, telling him that she knows exactly what he’s thinking, but then she blinks and it’s gone, responsibility settling back on her shoulders. He knows what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth. “I need to be getting back, but it was nice to meet you, Nate—” 

“Miller,” Miller cuts in, “my friends call me Miller.” 

He watches as the corners of her lips turn up in happiness. “Okay, it was nice to meet you Miller, and thank you for whatever project Bellamy has roped you into doing.” 

She shoots him one more smile, promising with her eyes to see him later, and then she’s gone, back down the hall and into the chaos in her mission to help every single sick person in this town who needs it single-handedly. 

“So, you and Clarke?” Miller asks suggestively almost the minute she disappears back down the hall. 

“It’s not like that,” he responds instantly, instinctively. He doesn’t know what they are, but it’s definitely not what Miller is implying. 

“Are you sure? Because from where I’m standing it looks exactly like that. Those were some serious heart eyes going on there, and I’m not talking about her.” 

“It’s not,” Bellamy repeats, adding some danger into his tone. While Miller is his best friend and isn’t even really an active part of the crime world, it would be perilous for the wrong people to start connecting him and her too closely. He can’t have it happen. 

“Whatever you want to tell yourself.” 

Bellamy thinks over his and Clarke’s brief interaction while they get back to work, trying to understand what it was that Miller saw that makes him so very certain, but despite his best attempts, he can’t manage to figure it out. He shakes his head, focusing back on the task in front of him. Miller is probably just fucking with him.

*****

It's with a bright grin that Bellamy walks into the clinic, late one night, just over a week later. He just managed to finish up a huge deal. One that, when it’s all said and done, should leave them with enough for Harper to finish paying off her Mother’s medical bills, for Raven to get that truck she’s been eyeing, and for Monty, Jasper, and Octavia all to get to wear something not second hand for their prom. There's even enough left after that, for him to add to his little someday savings.

More than that though, there’s enough there for them to survive off of for at least a few months. The prospect of not having to deal, to do anything more than the bare minimum, has him feeling lighter than he has in years. He’s not truly free, he won’t ever be, but for now, it’s enough. 

There's no one in the waiting room, neither patients nor friends, so he makes his way directly to the back, wrapping his arms around Clarke as soon as he’s able, and pulling her into his chest in a backward hug in lieu of a greeting. 

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks with a laugh, twisting around and leaning up to kiss him. 

Almost against his will, his joy starts to falter, his happiness feeling unjust. Sure, he’s free from the weight of this life, but only because there’s now a ton of new drugs on the street. While he tries to control who has access to his stuff, everyone who works under him knows that there are certain people they are forbidden from selling to, there are always people who seep through the cracks. He pictures a little boy, looking a little too much like himself, trying to wake their Mom up off of the bathroom floor. 

“Hey,” she says softly, tracing her finger across his forehead, “I didn’t mean to give you that look, it’s fine if you don’t want to tell me.” 

Even as she says it, he knows that it’s not really fine. When he first showed up on her door. with the intention of what, he’s still not exactly sure, he thought that he’d be able to keep her separate. Now, he knows that’s not really possible, but the instinct remains, even if the half-truths and misdirects weigh on him. 

He struggles with his words, trying to come up with a way to explain his conflicting emotions without having to explain the reason behind them. She wraps her arms more fully around him, tucking her head under his chin and giving him the support he was unknowingly searching for. He lets his head fall forward, allowing the silkiness of her hair against his cheek to comfort him. “I was having a good day,” 

“And now?” she asks, voice muffled by his shirt. 

Pausing to consider his response, he plays with the tips of her hair where they rest against her back. “And now... I’m not sure that I deserve to be having a good day."

She doesn’t let out a sigh, doesn’t make any indication that she’s frustrated with him, all she does is hug him a little tighter and then tip her head up so that she’s looking at him. “Why was it a good day?” 

“Because the people around me are going to be taken care of,” he answers instantly. It's an easy answer. Really, that’s all he’s ever wanted. 

The corners of her lips turn up like she wants to smile, but she’s trying to hold herself back. Not that it matters much, he can see the happiness in her eyes. He tucks a strand of hair away from her face, and she leans into his touch. 

“Then I think you should embrace the happiness. You have to take the good moments when they come.” 

He looks at her, really looks at her, wrapped up in his arms, beaming up at him like he’s truly something special and the smile comes back to his face with ease. His life is never going to be perfect, it’s just not what’s in store for him, but this, right here, is pretty fucking great. 

“Let’s go out for dinner tonight,” he says suddenly. She looks surprised, but now that he’s said it, he knows that it’s a perfect idea. One night where it can just be the two of them, where he can pretend that this is actually his life. 

“You know that’s not something I need, right?” she says softly, rubbing her hand up and down his arm, “I’m more than happy sitting here on the floor with you every night eating takeout from boxes.” 

He looks down at her and is surprised to find that he actually believes her. There’s a sincerity radiating off her that he can’t deny. Still, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish for something more. “I know, but let me take you out tonight.” 

She bites down on the bottom of her lip, excitement building in her eyes. “You’re sure you want to?” 

“Yeah, I’m not saying let’s go to some fancy five-star place, or even that we need to do this more than once, but for tonight, I’d like to go somewhere where we can sit across from each other in actual chairs and eat food off real plates.” 

In the back of his mind, he realizes that what he’s essentially asking for is a date, but he doesn’t let that bother him. They have been teetering on the edge of something more for months now. She’s about as fully ingrained in his life as she could ever be, and the world hasn’t fallen apart. The truth is that he’s wanted it for a while, and he’s starting to think that that might actually be okay. 

Of course, he’s not going to say any of it, but when he looks into her eye, he thinks that she probably understands. 

“Okay,” she says after a moment, a grin fully overtaking her face, “just give me like 30 minutes to go change, and then we can go.” 

She steps away from him, towards the door, but he stops her, grabbing hold of her hand and pulling her back to him. “You don’t need to change.” 

The looks she gives him is so incredulous that he has to stop himself from laughing. “Bellamy, I’m a mess.” 

“You’re beautiful,” he responds instantly. 

Her eyes soften even as she shakes her head in disbelief. “I look like I just finished an 8-hour shift at the hospital, which is pretty close to the truth.” 

He looks at her closely, notices the way her hair has started to curl around her face, how her lipstick has almost entirely faded off, the faint wrinkles in her shirt from when she’s rolled her sleeves up in concentration. While he’s sure that she’d look great in anything she chose to wear, this is the look he prefers. “You look like Clarke.” 

She opens her mouth, probably to tell him that he’s ridiculous, but he talks over her. “And that’s exactly who I’d like to have dinner with.”

*****

“Did you always want to be a doctor?” he asks while they are waiting for their pizza to arrive. They talked about it, drove around for a while before ultimately deciding on this little Italian restaurant, and he can’t help but think it’s the perfect spot. Not too fancy, but also more than the $7.99 pizza they normally order in. It's small and cozy, but not suffocating.

For a second, she seems unsure of herself like she doesn’t know how to respond to the simple question, but then she takes a sip of her water and answers with ease. “Yes, but the reason why changed. My mom is a doctor, so for a long time I was going to be one just because she was one.” 

He watches her talk about her mother with a faraway look in her eye, the flickering overhead light making it seem more ominous than he’s sure it is. He gets it through. In a screwed up, twisted kind of way, he also fell into what he does because the legacy of it was handed down to him. “But that changed?” 

Her attention shifts back to him at the prompting, a more familiar smile overtaking her face. “I realized that I could help people. Put some good back into the world. That's what the clinic is for me, a chance to restore some balance.” 

Privately, he thinks that she’s not the one who needs to be restoring any balance, but he keeps that to himself. If he’s learned anything at all about her, it’s that she’s always going to want to be doing more. She gives everything to the people around her, so much so that he sometimes worries that she doesn’t hold anything back for herself. 

The reality is that he’ll continue to worry, it’s just how he is with people he cares about. He’ll worry, but now with her smiling sweetly back at him is not the time to indulge it. “Save the world, one ingrown toenail at a time.” 

She laughs, bright and carefree like he hoped she would, “Well, you know, it’s the little things.” 

Grinning back at her, he thinks about all the little things he knows she does that ultimately end up meaning so much. He thinks about the old man who comes in without fail every week just because he’s lonely, or the kid who’s just a little too skinny that she always has a snack for; the addicts who walk through the door looking for a better life that she’s thrilled to try and provide, and the patients who she treats as though they were her friends. Her eyes soften like she knows what he’s thinking, but their food arrives before either of them can comment on it. 

“Has Franny been back again?” he asks, referencing one of her more eccentric patients while he absentmindedly pulls the olives off of his pizza and adds them to hers. 

Biting her lip, Clarke looks down at her plate and then back up at him with fondness written all over her face, “Yeah, she was in a couple days ago and you wouldn’t believe...” 

He watches her as she talks, animatedly gesturing as she goes, a feeling of pure happiness settling over him; this has definitely been a good day.


	6. I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well

When his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, Bellamy picks it up without any hesitation despite the glare that Indra sends towards him. The reality is that he doesn’t need to be here, they don’t need to be moving any new product right now, but Indra has always been good to him, and it’s never a good idea to make enemies in this line of work. 

With that in mind, he turns his attention to Indra while he digs the device out of his pants. “I’ll just be a second,” he tells her, confident that it’s only Octavia; really, she’s the only one who ever actually calls him. 

That confidence quickly turns to concern however, when he looks down and sees Clarke’s name flashing in the display. She doesn’t call him. _Ever._ Stepping away from Indra, he hastily connects the call, hoping that she’s not able to see the worry etched across his face. 

_She probably pocket dialed you,_ he tells himself fiercely while he waits for it to connect, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. _You were texting with her earlier, and she probably just hit your number by accident._

It connects, and for a moment all he can hear is a series of disjointed noises, the rustle of fabric, the static of an unstable call. He's nearly convinced himself that it’s nothing, but then he hears a sob. Terror fills his chest. There's another noise, distinctly Clarke this time, and his panic increases. 

“Hello?” he asks cautiously. “Clarke?” he adds on when it takes her too long to answer before cutting himself off quickly with a sharp look towards Indra, who he finds watching him steadily. _Fuck._ He walks out of the room and out of hearing distance. “Are you okay? Where are you?” 

“There was an accident,” she says softly, her voice muffled and broken. Faintly, he hears more rustling on her end. “I’m in a supply closet. I just needed a moment. I just had to get away.” 

_What the hell?_ Taking care to enunciate each word he asks again. “Are you okay?” 

Across the line, he hears her take a deep breath, trying rather unsuccessfully to control her ragged breathing. He waits impatiently for her to continue, pacing back and forth outside the narrow entryway. 

“I’m fine,” she tells him, but he doesn’t believe her, not when her voice hitches halfway through the simple sentence. “Okay, not fine,” she amends with a hollow laugh, “but not hurt. It’s Wells.” 

He feels a rush of relief and then a rush of horror. For as much as Clarke cares about everyone, she doesn’t have many people who she really _cares_ about, and Wells is at the top of that list from what he can tell. “What...” he asks, not sure how to phrase a question he’s not sure he wants the answer to. 

“The hospital called, I didn’t think anything of it, I’ve been doing some work with them, they called me, asked me to come in and identify— identity the—” He hears the phone move again like she’s pressing it into her shirt to stop him from hearing; it doesn’t work. He can hear another desperate sob as it leaves her body, can feel each painful breath almost as if he were beside her. 

“There was a car accident, something— I don’t know, he went off the road, crashed into the guard rail,” she tells him shakily, “The car caught fire.” 

“Christ,” he breaths out, not sure what the fuck he’s supposed to say to that. A vision of burnt flesh enters his head and frantically, he shakes it away. He hopes with everything in him that she didn’t have to see anything like that, even though he knows that she probably did. _How the hell is a person supposed to come back from seeing that?_

“I didn’t even know that he was in town again...” she continues on like she didn’t hear him, “Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t I call him? I should have known.” 

By the end, her voice has taken on a hysteric quality. One that both breaks his heart and sends a stab of worry through him. “Do you want me to—” he starts to offer, slightly unsure of himself. He's actually quite close to the hospital here, he could be by her side within fifteen minutes. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” she responds hastily. He can picture her wiping venomously at her cheeks to remove any trace of her tears and then being frustrated when new ones quickly take their place. 

The picture is so utterly heart wrenching that he feels compelled to make the offer again. “It wouldn’t be— I can—” he tries to explain how intensely he wants to be there with her right now, but once again his words fall short. 

He hears her let out a shaky breath on the other end of the line and then when she speaks again, she sounds almost normal. _Almost._ He can still hear the smallest of trembles. “I’m okay, my Mom is here now, and his Dad...” 

She still sounds hesitant, like she’d much rather it be him there, but he’s reluctant to push. He doesn’t know how to do this, not with her, not with anyone, “Are you sure?” 

There the sound of silence across the connection, seemingly louder than normal, and then she lets out a sigh, fully auditable this time. He feels the hair stand on the back of his neck, sure that he’s finally going to experience the rejection that he thought was inevitable at the start, but then she’s talking, continuing softly. “There are cops all over.” 

“Fuck.” 

It’s not like there are warrants out for his arrest, he’s honestly not sure if they would even have any idea who he was from sight alone. He was booked a few times in his teens, once for possession, once for property damage, but there hasn’t been anything in years. He's careful now, cautious in a way he didn’t know how to be back then. Still, though, he’s not going to risk any of them connecting him to Clarke, not when he doesn’t have to. 

She lets out a laugh, but it sounds wrong, hollow like it doesn’t belong. “That pretty much sums it all up, yeah.” 

The sun shines brightly overhead despite the chill of December in the air. The weather has been unseasonably nice, almost as though it’s mocking them, mocking him. He kicks at the stone wall beside him, frustrated that once again his life is going to prevent him from being who she needs him to be. Scrambling, he tries to think of some way that he can make it work while she waits patiently, nothing but her puffs of breaths to tell him that she’s still there. He thinks, each plan more far fetched than the last, but nothing sticks. 

“It’s okay,” she tells him when the silence drags on for too long. 

Letting out a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a cry, Bellamy looks up at the clear blue sky. “It’s really not.” 

He can almost see the shrug she does, the pinched expression between her eyes that he knows she gets whenever he starts to spiral in self-hatred. The vision rips another piece out of him; this isn’t about him, it’s about her. The absolute last thing she should be worried about right now is him and his issues. 

“Come over when you’re done? Or I could meet you? Pick you up, so you don’t have to drive home,” he offers, settling for later since they can’t have now. 

“I probably can’t," she explains, sounding eerily robotic, “my parents are going to want to see me and then there’s the planning, I’m going to need to be here for that.” 

“Okay,” he responds, trying to keep any note of dejectedness out of his voice, “Whatever you need.” 

When she speaks again, the warmth is back, but so is the sadness and he’s honestly not sure how much of an improvement it is. “I’ll call, okay.” 

“I’ll be here,” he promises, smiling grimly to himself.

*****

The rest of the day and the next pass incredibly slowly. There's not much for him to do right now, between construction being slow in the winter months, and his retreat from anything drug-related. He checks in on the clinic, using the key that Clarke gave what feels like a lifetime ago, just to make sure that everything is alright, but it doesn’t feel right to stay. Even if he could find something to work on, the place is too quiet without the sound of her moving around.

He talks to her, more than once, but it’s not as comforting as he’d expect; something just feels off. While she's not sad exactly, not emotional like she was with the initial call, she also doesn’t sound like _his_ Clarke, and he misses his Clarke. Logically, he knows that it makes sense; she’s grieving, and there’s nothing he can do about that. Still, he wants to help, to bring back her brightness, and he doesn’t know how. 

“Stop staring at your phone,” Octavia yells the following afternoon, causing him to nearly jump. Bellamy looks up, glaring, only to find her curled up on the couch with her back to him. 

“I wasn’t,” he grumbles, walking over to sit beside her. 

She turns to look at him, unimpressed. “You totally were.” 

Groaning, Bellamy throws the device onto the table in front of them, determined to not look at it again for at least ten minutes. Maybe five. Idleness has never been easy for him; he started going before he even really knew what that meant and has just never stopped. 

“Have you talked to her?” he asks Octavia softly. She just shrugs beside him, her attention back on the notebook in her lap. He should be thrilled that she’s studying, should just leave her alone to work, but instead, he pushes for more. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means kind of?” she says, closing the book on her lap, tossing it aside, and then twisting so that she’s facing him with her legs crossed. “I texted, she answered. That's happened a couple of times.” 

“And did she sound okay?” 

“Bell,” she responds, sounding fondly exasperated, “you’ve talked to her way more than I have.” 

Instead of saying anything, he just continues to stare at her. He knows that it’s ridiculous, but he needs her to answer him anyway. He needs to hear it from someone else. 

“She seemed sad. Her best friend just fucking died, suddenly and horribly; she’s supposed to be sad.” 

“Yeah...” he agrees, halfheartedly. It seems like more than that to him, but what the hell does he know? 

Unconsciously, his eyes flit back to his phone sitting across from him still and silent. 

“If you’re so worried, go see her,” Octavia tells him, nudging his shoulder. 

He lets out a sigh, forcing his attention back to his sister. “She’s busy.” 

“There’s no way she’s _that_ busy. Five minutes, and you’ll feel better. She probably will too.” 

Against his better judgment, he actually considers it. He just needs to see her, to see for himself that she’s as okay as she claims to be, and then he can let it go. Like Octavia says, just a few minutes, and then he can stop looking at his phone every couple minutes. He entertains the idea for a minute before dismissing it with a sigh. “She’s not even home. She’s been staying with her parents.” 

Octavia rolls her eyes at him. “That sounds like an excuse.” 

“Or me being respectful,” he tells her with a glare, “She says that she’s busy, and it’s not my place to just barge into her life unannounced.” 

“And since when exactly are you respectful?” she counters, her voice rising in annoyance, “If it was me, you would have said fuck it hours ago and done what you’re gut told you to do regardless of what I said I wanted.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, not sure who he’s trying to convince more. 

“If you believed that you wouldn’t be a mess right now,” she says bluntly, reaching back over to grab her notes, “and if you are going to insist on being a dumbass then go mope in your room, I’m trying to study.” 

With another sigh, he pushes himself up off the worn couch and grabs his phone. For a minute, he just stands there aimlessly. He looks to the kitchen, contemplating the merits of making food, then back to Octavia, fully immersed in her work again, before discounting both as suitable distractions. Spinning the phone in his hand, Bellamy stands there, trying to think of a better option until Octavia’s annoyance with him gets so loud, he forces himself to retreat into his room. Hopefully, she will call tonight.

*****

She does, in fact, call him, and he actually gets to talk with her for a decent amount of time. She's home alone so there’s no rush, no threat of someone overhearing them or wanting her attention. They talk for almost an hour and by the end of it, he’s convinced that she is actually as well adjusted as she seems.

Or maybe he just makes her happy as confusing as the notion seems; she laughs throughout the conversation, not the bright and free one that he’s accustomed to, but not the hollow half one either, and that seems like a win. 

He’s feeling great, better than he has since her first phone call, so when she mentions that they have finally got the funeral settled for tomorrow, he doesn’t hesitate to offer to go. 

It's only after that he starts to regret it. He doesn’t know if her parents know about him, he assumes not based on her reluctance to talk to him with people around, and he doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t know what the fuck they are, but he’s self-aware enough to realize that he’s not the kind of guy that girls want to bring home. Still, that doesn’t stop his stomach from dropping at her prolonged silence. 

“Bellamy,” she says softly, and there’s so much misery in her voice that he instantly feels guilty. 

Swallowing his pride, Bellamy takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t have to be like that. No one has to know I’m there for you. There are probably going to be hundreds of people at this thing, right? I’ll blend right in for everyone else, but you’ll be able to look out into the crowd and see me.” 

“It’s going to be long and boring,” she tells him like he doesn’t know what it is he’s signing up for, her voice suddenly cold and detached. 

“So we will go find a closet and have some fun when you can sneak away,” he teases because fuck he needs to pull back a little, he needs to get them back into familiar ground. 

For a second, he worries that he pushed it too far, that suggesting they sneak off for a hookup during her best friend's funeral is just a level of inappropriate too far, but then she lets out a huff of laughter.

“Thank you,” she tells him sincerely after a moment, but he can hear the rest coming before she even starts talking, “but I need to do this on my own.”

He wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to do it alone, that she has a whole group of people here ready to be her back up, that she has him, willing and able to stand at her side. Instead, he says okay.

*****

Bellamy spends the entire morning before the funeral checking his phone; it’s not a new habit. In fact, it’s become pathetically regular over the last couple of days. He even digs into the back of his closet to find the one presentable looking dress shirt he owns, just in case she calls and suddenly wants him by her side. It’s not surprising that he’s a mess, he could have predicted it without too much difficulty. He’s been a mess, he is a mess, and he didn’t care, but that was when there was no one other than Octavia around to notice it.

The small apartment is crowded with people by the time Bellamy emerges from his room, grumpy and twitchy from a night of restless sleep. He runs his hand through his hair, noting that everyone save Raven is here. Well, everyone except Raven and Clarke. 

“You look like shit,” Murphy tells him from his place resting against the counter, a bowl of cereal in his hands. 

“Fuck off, Murphy,” he responds instinctively, reaching up to grab a mug and then filling it with hours-old coffee from the pot. 

“Grouchy too,” he snarks, but Bellamy pays him no mind, passing by him. 

Over the next couple of hours, more than one person notices his odd behavior, even if Octavia is the only one to remark on it, telling him to get his shit together, until eventually, he can’t handle it anymore. Shrugging on his coat, he tells them all that he has his phone if they need him and leaves. 

Once again, he considers just getting in his truck and driving to the church where the service is being held. It wouldn’t be that hard to find out where; he wouldn’t even need to ask her, he’s sure the service was advertised in the paper. He glances down at his watch, noting with mixed emotions that it’s already started and then continues on foot. 

“Don’t you have something better to be doing on a Sunday afternoon?” Miller asks, gaining his attention almost as soon as he walks through the door to the bar nearly an hour later. Bellamy looks over at his friend in excitement; he wasn't expecting to find Miller when he decided that here would be the perfect place to hide out, but maybe he should have. This was their spot, after all, back before they both decided it was time to grow up. “Where’s the girlfriend?” 

“Not my girlfriend,” Bellamy responds, sliding onto the creaky barstool beside him. “Where’s Bryan?” 

“He’s working.” Miller tips his head to the other side of the room where Bryan is currently serving a table. Seeming to feel Miller's gaze, he looks over to them and waves in greeting. Bellamy nods his head back. “They called and asked him to cover and the idiot wouldn’t say no even though he hasn’t worked here in years. He never says no.” 

There’s a fondness to Miller’s eyes that makes Bellamy feel slightly uneasy as he moves to take the empty stool beside his friend. He misses Clarke, and it’s undoubtedly a problem. 

“Clarke’s spending the weekend with her family,” Bellamy tells him, shaking himself when he realizes Miller is still waiting for an answer and trying not to let his frustration with the situation show. General dislike of authority figures aside, he knows he’s got issues with parental figures that aren’t often warranted. Just another thing he can thank his fucked up childhood for. 

Miller winces like he doesn’t spend a tone of time just hanging out with his Dad for the fun of it. He’s a good friend like that. “Yikes.” 

“No, it’s not—” He starts and then stops, reaching over the counter to grab a bowl of nuts, desperately needing something to do with his hands. The reality is that he agrees with Miller’s assessment of the situation far more than he should, and none of it is helpful. “It’s good. Her parents are good from what she’s said.” 

“She’s actually at a funeral,” he adds on, looking at the peanut in his hand rather than his friend. _She’s probably about to give her eulogy,_ he thinks, trying not to let the horror of it all bring him down any lower than he already is. 

“Oh, that was all over the paper this morning! Black ice in the middle of the night, what a shitty situation. How did she know him?” 

“He was her best friend; they’d known each other all their lives,” Bellamy explains, throwing the empty shells into another basket with maybe a little too much aggression and then looking back at Miller. 

Bellamy watches Miller's eyes widen. “Fuck.” 

“Yup,” he responds. There's really nothing else to say; he’s tried and come up empty more than once throughout this process. 

“And you’re here why exactly?” Miller asks with his usual brand of concerned snark. 

“They have the best free snacks,” Bellamy deadpans, tossing a peanut into his mouth. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Miller just continues to stare at him, playing up innocence that Bellamy knows for a fact that he doesn’t have; neither of them has. “Like how?” 

“It’s not that I even wanted to go.” He didn’t, really. Once was enough for him to find the whole ordeal rather nauseating. It took him years to be okay around cemeteries again, and even now, he’ll drive the extra two minutes to avoid passing by the one where they left his Mom. He _really_ didn’t want to go. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Miller responds with a smirk, taking a sip of his drink. 

For a second, Bellamy considers arguing his position, but then Bryan comes over, offering him something to drink and he realizes that it’s not worth it. Instead, he lets the banter of his two friends distract him from his worries.

*****

Clarke has been to his apartment multiple times by now, so many that it’s not even possible for him to count. It just made sense, hooking up in her office became more cumbersome than exciting quickly and he’s never asked nor has she offered her place as a suggestion. She knows where he lives, how to get into his place even; he’s sure that some of those times she’s been here were without him around. Yet, for as clearly as he knows all that, he still doesn’t expect to see her when he gets back hours later.

“I hope this is okay,” she starts to say, standing up from her place on the stone steps, tugging on the edge of her black cardigan, “After everything, I just didn’t want to—” 

Cutting her off, he steps forward and wraps his arms around her in the way he’s been dying to the entire day; for days actually. She holds on tight, burying her face into his chest. He rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to infuse some warmth into her. _What was she doing sitting out here in nothing but a dress and a thin sweater? It's the middle of December for fuck's sake, what was she thinking?_

Her shoulders start to shake, and he can’t tell if it's from the cold or from grief, but it doesn’t matter. He just holds on tighter, silently berating himself for staying out so late, for giving in to his own insecurities about her not wanting him, when she was here waiting. 

“You’re always welcome here,” he whispers into her hair once her shaking subsides. 

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she just nods into his shoulder, but when she pulls back a few minutes later, he can see the gratitude in her eyes. “We should head inside, it’s cold out here.” 

“You don’t say,” he responds sarcastically with a pointed look to her bare legs. 

Laughing a little self-consciously, she shrugs. “I wasn’t waiting for that long.” 

Another shiver moves through her body, and he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He doesn’t believe that for a second, but he doesn’t feel like calling her on it, not when her eyes are still red-rimmed and puffy. Instead, he wraps his arm back around her, pulling her close to him, a move that she makes eagerly. 

They walk like that together into the building, slowly up the stairs and onto the landing outside his door until suddenly, she stops. He looks at her in confusion when she steps out of his embrace hesitantly, but then he hears the sound of Octavia, Jasper, Monty, and Harper playing some game inside and it makes sense. 

He watches her drag the edge of her sleeve under her eye, trying to remove the smudged mascara with thinly veiled concern. She smiles back at him like she knows what he’s thinking and wants to reassure him, but the smile is wobbly at best. 

“Do I look okay?” she asks him, letting her hand fall back to her side. 

More than anything, he wants to tell her that she’s fine and she doesn’t need to try to hide her pain from them, but he knows better. And honestly, he’d be a hypocrite if he said anything since he’s stood in this exact same place, preparing and strengthening his own mask. 

Reaching forward, he swipes his thumb under her left eye, catching the last remaining bit of black. “You look perfect.” 

“Thanks,” she says softly, leaning into his hand. 

They stay in that position for a moment before he pulls back, albeit slowly. They just need to make it through the living room and then they can hide out in his room for the rest of the day. He goes to open the door. “Ready?” 

Hesitating for only a fraction of a second, she nods and this time when she smiles, it’s far more convincing, so he opens the door. While he’s not at all shocked by Jasper’s excitement or Octavia’s pleased grin when they walk through the door one after the other, he feels like Clarke is. She does a good job of keeping the mask on her face, but he can tell that she’s overwhelmed. 

Still, she takes a seat on the edge of the couch, listening intently as Harper asks her how she’s been and Monty explains the game that they’ve been playing. As time passes, though, he can see the cracks in it start to form. Quietly, he slips into the kitchen to heat them up some food while she watches them continue with their game, knowing that it would be better for them to make their escape sooner than later. When he hands her the plate, she thanks him with an overly bright grin, not that she actually eats any of it. 

Quickly, he finishes up the food in his bowl and then taps her on the shoulder. She looks at him in confusion so he tips his head towards his room. Even though he can see the relief in her eyes at the notion of leaving, she makes no move to get up off the floor. 

“Come on,” he says softly, offering his hand, “They will be fine without us.” 

For a second, he worries that one of them is going to protest them leaving already, but then he catches Octavia’s eye and she nods in understanding. “Go on, entertain my brother, he’s been mopping without you.” 

She strips out of her dress almost the moment he’s closed the door behind him, shedding the fine fabric like it was heavy metal weighing her down. He reaches in his dresser to hand her a shirt only to find that she’s picked up one of his discarded shirts and is already pulling the covers back on what he’s come to think of as her side of the bed. 

He tugs off his pants and slides into bed behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist and tucking her head under his chin, with practiced ease. She settles back more fully against him and it’s like he can breathe fully for the first time in days. This is the feeling he’s been desperately missing.

“I’m sorry I brushed you off when you offered to come,” she tells him softly, startling him. He’d thought that she'd fallen asleep. 

Pushing himself up on his elbow, he leans over so that he can see her face in the dim light coming through the window. “No, Clarke it’s—” 

He cuts off sharply at her glare, knowing that she doesn’t want to simply be let off the hook. He sighs and then readjusts himself. If they are actually going to have a conversation about this, he can’t do it hovering over her. He lays down on his side again, but this time she turns to face him, resting her head on the other side of his pillow. 

“It really was fine,” he continues once they are settled and he’s sure that she will be able to see the sincerity in his face. “I wanted to be there for you. Funerals as a whole are not my favorite place...” 

Nodding her head slightly, she seems to accept his answer as truthful even without him providing the messy details, she knows that his Mom died. For a split second, he thinks that it’s all settled, but then she looks away, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Have I ever told you about my Dad?” 

“No,” he answers slowly mostly because it seems to be what she wants him to say. Even as she asked the question, it was clear to him that she knew that she hadn’t. He’s heard the odd detail about her Mother and every so often, she’s mentioned parents in passing, but for the most part she doesn’t talk about her family. He’s always assumed that was just her being sensitive to the shitty parents the rest of them have been given. 

“He was my favorite person,” she explains and there’s a slight smile on her face despite the past tense of her phrasing. “He was the one I went to when I was sad and when I was happy. Then suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore."

“What happened?” Bellamy asks gently, threading his fingers through hers to stop her anxious movements. Entwining their hands, she seems to find strength in his touch. 

“A car accident,” she reveals with a grimace, looking at him with pain in her eyes. “It was the middle of June, he was coming home from a business trip, a route that he’d traveled hundreds of times, but he lost control of the car, went off the side of the road.” 

“Fuck, that’s...” he trails off not sure what to say, “You really should avoid cars.” She stiffens beside him, and he instantly feels like an asshole because now is definitely not the time to be making jokes. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

He apologizes again, but it’s like she can’t hear him. The grip she had on his hand has gone slack, so he gently pulls his hand away and places it on the side of her face, pushing a strand of hair off her face. 

“Hey,” he says softly, trying to get her to look at him, instead of focusing on whatever horror is playing back in her mind. It takes him a few more attempts, then when she does, there’s a flash of something harsh and frantic in her eyes. 

“Oh my god,” she whispers roughly, “Oh my god, it’s the same.” 

Pulling her closer, he wraps his arms around her until she’s fully enclosed in his embrace, just hoping that it will do something to help ease her pain. She buries herself closer, clinging to him like her sanity depends on it. 

Despite the temptation, he doesn’t tell her that it will be okay, he doesn’t give her any of the platitudes running through his head, knowing that they won’t help. Instead, he just holds on to her, keeping her together in the only way he knows how until the noise outside his door fades away, the moon through the window rises high in the sky, and eventually, sleep claims them both.


	7. Chapter 7

There’s something eerily quiet about the clinic parking lot when he pulls up a few weeks later. There’s not anything obviously wrong, it’s early, no one other than Clarke should be here yet, that was the entire point of him coming now to help her move furniture around, but as he steps out of the truck, the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. 

Instead of closing the door, he reaches further inside till his fingers close around the handle of the glove compartment. Still looking around, trying desperately to spot whatever danger it is that he’s sensing, his hand closes around his gun. Normally, he leaves it in the car; he did the first time, bringing a weapon into a free clinic whose entire purpose is to help heal people just felt wrong, and then after, it just became a habit. 

Today though, he is grateful for the feel of the cold metal, heavy in his hands. Especially, when he walks around the corner of the building and finds the front door busted apart and the windows all smashed to pieces. 

He steps inside, glass crunching underneath his feet, looking around, but she’s nowhere to be seen. In the back of his mind, he curses himself for not pushing for her to stay over last night. He could have made the argument, and honestly, probably won it; she looked exhausted. If he had just trusted his overbearing instincts, she would have stayed over, they would have driven here together and he wouldn’t be terrified right now. 

“Clarke?” he calls out urgently into the empty room, gun raised at the ready. When she doesn’t answer immediately, he raises his voice, a twinge of desperation in his tone, “Clarke?” 

“Back here,” he hears her respond and his heart starts to slow down. She steps into the waiting room, looking perfectly normal and he feels marginally better; her clinic was still broken into after all. 

“Sorry, I thought I’d be able to clean this up before you got here.” 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, lowering the gun and stepping forward to examine her more closely, not caring about the mess, not even seeing it, now that she’s in front of him. 

There’s an air of indifference to the way she casually walks the remaining distance towards him as though he didn’t just have a gun pointed in her direction that fills him with unease, but that quickly gets pushed aside when she speaks. “No, I’m fine, it was like this when I got here.” 

He hastily switches the safety on and stows the weapon in the back of his pants while she steps over an upturned chair, the last remaining obstacle between them. She folds into his arms easily, and that seems to calm the rest of his anxiety. At least, it does until he looks down and notices a streak of blood across her palm. “You’re bleeding.” 

“What?” she starts to say only to stop short when he grabs her hand in his to look closer, “Dang it, I thought I had finally got that to stop.” 

Across her hand is an angry line, fat droplets of red standing out in stark contrast against her pale skin. The sight sends a pit of lead deep into his stomach. Even though she’s acting like she’s fine, he knows from experience that a cut like that hurts like hell. The scar across his left hand is a constant reminder that guns aren’t the only thing that can be a weapon. A knife in the right hands is just as deadly. He looks up at her sharply. 

“I cut it trying to clean up some broken glass,” she assures him quickly, pulling back her hand and pressing the skin with a wince. 

“Here let me...” he grabs her uninjured hand in his and pulls her towards the back. The examination room isn’t as much of a mess as the entryway, but it has still been tossed over. The poster has been ripped from the wall, the contents of the cabinets thrown on the ground at random, the one potted plant smashed to pieces sending dirt across the floor. Letting go of her hand, he rights the stool and then moves to try and find some supplies. “Sit.” 

When he turns back to face her, the necessary materials in his hands, she’s grinning at him teasingly, “Are you trying to take my job?” 

“Shut up,” he says, ducking his head embarrassed while he takes the seat opposite her. Quickly, he reaches for one of the antiseptic wipes and starts to clean the cut. 

“You’re good at this,” she comments after a moment, but he just shrugs, focusing on getting the bandage to go on properly. Before he found her, he was the one to patch up all the little scraps they got into. It was just another skill that he learned to get by. “Really,” she enthuses, nudging his leg with her foot, “do you want a job? You could be my apprentice.” 

“All I’ve done is clean it and wrapped it,” he answers wryly, even though her antics send a thrill of possibility through him. One that he quickly ignores. 

“And you’re good at it, just the right amount of pressure, you wrapped the bandage correctly. I’m just saying.” 

Instead of responding, Bellamy makes sure that the bandage is secure and sits back. With his hands resting on either knee, he lets out a sigh and looks at her more closely. There’s something tingling in the back of his mind, something about this that just doesn’t feel right and he’s learned time and time again to trust that instinct. “Did they take anything?” 

She hesitates for a moment biting her lip, just long enough for him to tell that she’s thinking of holding something back. Just long enough for him to know that he’s not going to like her answer. “About 50 dollars that I had tucked away in the office and some random things.”

“But nothing of actual value,” he surmises. 

“No,” she agrees, “but there’s not a lot of actual value here for them to take. I keep anything stronger than ibuprofen locked up.” 

Leveling her with a hard look, he wonders if she’s actually that naïve or if she’s just trying to downplay it all so that he won’t overreact. The reality is that her lock-up system is nothing more than a drawer with a fancy bike lock on it. Enough to discourage angsty teenagers from sneaking something when life gets a little too tough maybe, but nowhere near enough to prevent robbers from breaking through. 

If all of that is still there, it means that whoever did this wasn’t out to take anything. Instead, they were trying to send a message. A message to him. 

“Don’t go there,” Clarke says with a sigh, running her uninjured hand through her hair like she can read his mind. 

“Why not?” he questions probably too aggressively, standing up suddenly, “It’s true.” 

“Don’t start spiraling, Bellamy,” she tells him forcefully, “It’s a free clinic, in a bad part of town. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before. Honestly, the only reason it hasn’t is probably because this place used to look like a shack.” 

“So you think it’s a coincidence? That the place where me and all of my people spend the vast majority of their free time was the target of a really terribly executed robbery?” 

“Why not?” she asks, throwing her hands up in the air up in exasperation. 

“Clarke, your clinic was broken into,” he cries, walking back out into the main room, hoping that maybe if she can just see it all, she’ll realize how fucked up the situation is. “There’s literally a me sized hole in your window, why doesn’t that scare you?!” 

“Because it’s fine! I wasn’t here, no one got hurt. All that we need to do is replace the window and it will be like this never happened,” she responds, moving around him into the room like there’s nothing wrong. 

“Replace the window,” he mutters darkly, “Replace the window and everything can go back to normal. There’s no going back. There's a target on this place now. I don’t know why or who—” Bellamy runs his hand through his hair looking around the space, at the upturned chairs and the torn magazines. “Fuck.” 

“Why does it always have to be the worst possible scenario?” Clarke asks quietly with her back to him, “Why does it always have to be your fault?” 

He steps forward to look at her. The frustration is written clearly across her face, but the sadness underneath is just as evident. 

Yet, there’s nothing he can do to help. He doesn’t know why he’s life turned out like this, why some people get to have mothers who love them more than anything in the world and he got one who couldn't be bothered to stay in this world for him. He doesn’t know why he gets to meet an amazing person like her just to have to walk away, but he knows that he does have to walk away. 

“I need to stop spending as much time here,” he starts to say, unwilling or maybe just unable to say what he really means: _I need to stop spending so much time with you._ “We all do.” 

“No.” 

Her bold declaration startles him out of his thoughts and when he looks over at her, the morning sunlight like a spotlight shining on her, she looks more determined than he’s ever seen anyone look. 

“I’m not going to lose someone else,” she says fiercely and then more softly, “Don’t make me lose anyone else.” 

For a few seconds, almost a full minute, he manages to hold strong in his resolve, but then he sees the cracks in her normal strong demeanor start to splinter and he can’t hold himself back. He doesn’t want to. Which really, is his entire problem when it comes to her. 

Within a few heartbeats, he’s close enough to wrap his arms around her, and then she’s flying into his chest. He runs his hands up and down her back, glad for the moment at least to have her safe. 

“I’ll be more careful, okay,” she promises, looking up at him with shiny blue eyes, “Everything will be fine.” 

He nods his head in acceptance even though every piece of him screams in reluctance. This is the start of something here, he knows it, and once something starts, it’s impossible to go back. He can’t acknowledge that though, not when she’s clinging to him like he’s her everything and he’s holding back just as hard.

*****

“What are you doing?” Clarke asks, turning to him with a laugh when he drops an old Santa hat on her head. There haven’t been any other attacks in the week since the clinic break-in which has gone a long way to making him feel better. “I think you’re about a month too late.”

He sets the box full of decorations down in front of her. “Nope, I’m right on time.” 

“Oh really?” she says, grinning at him. 

It’s easy to grin back at her. For the first 20 years of his life, he hated this time of year. The holiday season was just a representation of all the things he either couldn’t or didn’t have. Now though, the way they do it, it’s everything that he loves about his life. “Yeah, it’s tradition.” 

“You never said anything,” she says, fiddling with the hat in her hands, “I don’t have anything...” 

Standing up, he moves so that he is sitting beside her with his arm thrown over her shoulders. She leans into him after a second. “All you have to do is show up. We don’t really give gifts… that’s the kind of thing that made this holiday suck for a lot of us, you know?” 

She nods her understanding even though he’s sure she doesn’t really get it, and just like that, it’s all as easy as he hoped it would be. Octavia shows up with Jasper, Monty, and Harper in tow and the six of them transform the apartment into something resembling an ugly Christmas sweater. Raven and Murphy show up within an hour barring their meal for the evening and some truly terribly decorated cookies. 

With everyone in attendance, the celebrations commence. There is food and laughter, games, and curses. It's everything he loves about the tradition made better by Clarke’s presence. The way she hangs decorations with O, mocking Murphy’s cookies, how she teams up with Raven to defeat Jasper and Monty at charades, it all fills him with a profound sense of peace. 

Until, of course, that peace is shattered when Clarke looks down at her phone halfway through the second movie and tenses. “Sorry, I need to take this. I’ll be back in just a second, you don’t need to wait.” 

“What’s up with blondie?” Murphy asks when Bellamy reaches over hastily to pause as Clarke disappears into his room. 

“Don’t be an asshole, Murphy!” Octavia complains.

“Where’s the festive spirit?” Raven asks, throwing some popcorn at him 

Bellamy, for his part, just shrugs. Between the funeral and then the break-in, she’s pulled back a little; not a lot, not in any way that’s outwardly noticeable, but it’s there. It makes sense to him, she came pretty close to having a full-blown breakdown on him that night, and if the roles were reversed, he’s sure he’d feel a similar instinct to retreat. “She’s grieving.” 

“She’s twitchy,” Murphy counters, “That’s not grief, that’s something else.” 

Instead of responding, Bellamy just flips him, standing up to go make some more snacks. If Murphy knew how traumatic it was to lose someone, if he allowed himself to feel those emotions, he’d understand. As it stands, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

“Is everything okay?” Bellamy asks when Clarke slides up to him a few minutes later while he’s shaking the seasoning onto the newest batch of popcorn. 

She wraps her arm around him, standing up on her tippy toes to kiss him. “It’s perfect.” 

And really, who’s he to argue with that.

*****

It’s with a pleasant weariness that Bellamy climbs the stairs to his apartment in the first week of February. While it will be a few more weeks until they are back to regular hours in the construction world, it has been nice being back this week. Having nothing to do is great in concept, but he’s found that he does better when there are tasks for him to accomplish. The fact that he gets to accomplish those tasks on the right side of the law, with his best friend beside him, is just an added bonus.

He opens the door, thinking about what they should order for dinner, wondering if Clarke is already here and is instantly thrown by the quiet. In all the years that they have lived here, he doesn’t think it has ever been silent. If there wasn’t some combination of voices filling the small space, it was the TV or radio; even at night, there was typically a symphony of snores to chase away the quiet. 

“O,” he calls out, pulling his jacket off slowly. She didn’t tell him she was planning to be out, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She's going to be 18 in just a few months and as she likes to remind him, he’s going to have to get used to not knowing her whereabouts at all times. 

_Still, a text would have been nice,_ he thinks grumpily, moving further into the house. “Jasper? Monty? Raven? Anyone?” 

When no one answers him, he changes directions from Octavia’s room to the kitchen. He opens the fridge and grabs himself a drink, oddly disgruntled by being all alone. Aside from the ten minutes it takes him to drive anywhere, he generally isn’t alone, hasn’t been since Octavia showed up. 

Putting his drink down on the counter, trying not to let the piercing silence get to him, he pulls out his phone. Mostly to see if he has any missed messages, but also to call Clarke. He expected her to be here by now. Something must have come up at the clinic to delay her, but since it wouldn’t be the first time, he doesn’t let it trouble him, at least not too much. It appears that no one is waiting for him here, so he might as well go to her instead.

He listens intently as the call rings until eventually, he reaches Clarke’s voice, cheerily promising to call him back. Hanging up the phone, he looks around the empty apartment once more and then goes to reclaim his keys. There’s no point hanging around here alone, waiting for her to finish up with whatever patient she’s managed to find when he could just go to her. Especially not when the quiet is making him overly twitchy. 

The drive from his place to the clinic isn’t long, not even a full fifteen minutes, but for some reason, it feels entirely too long. He drums his fingers across the steering wheel, readjusts his seatbelt on his shoulder more times than he can count. Then when he hits yet another red light, he reaches down blindly for his phone, hitting Octavia’s contact information and putting it on speaker before the light has even changed. 

Just like with Clarke, the phone rings and rings until he ends up at the voicemail box. _Maybe they are planning something,_ he thinks warily as he pulls into the parking lot. His birthday isn’t until March, but doing it three weeks early is exactly the kind of plan that Octavia would think is brilliant. 

Those thoughts are dashed however when he sees the dark interior of the building. Using his key, he opens the door and steps inside, the dread that he’d been trying to ignore for the better part of an hour, now in full force. The space is as empty as it seemed from the outside, neatly closed up for the night. 

This time, he tries to call Monty, then Jasper, then Raven, each with no luck. 

_What the fuck?_ He looks around, desperation clawing at his chest now, trying to figure out what could have happened, each scenario worse than the last. Spinning around the space, he tries to formulate some kind of plan over the rapid beating of his heart. 

Then his phone rings, and his heart stops. 

Frantically, he grabs for the device, but his hands are sweaty and shaky and uncooperative, and it slips through them. When he finally manages to answer the call, he expects to hear Clarke’s familiar rasp or Octavia’s fond annoyance. Instead, he’s greeted by a deep growl. 

“Bellamy?” The distinctively male voice questions urgently. 

He hesitates for a second because it seems stupid to just give away his identity, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. This mysterious guy could have information about Octavia, about Clarke, and he’ll do anything for that. “Yes.” 

On the other side of the line, the man lets out what sounds like a sigh of relief before continuing quickly. “Okay, you need to listen to me closely, we don’t have a lot of time. Your crew are at a warehouse over on 14th st.” 

_Dante’s territory,_ Bellamy realizes with a start. _What the fuck are they doing there? It's been almost a year since Atom’s injury, why would they suddenly decide that now was the time to act? To disobey him?_

“Fuck,” Bellamy says harshly, already pushing the door open. Thankfully, he’s close, only a couple of minutes if he disregards traffic laws. 

There’s a moment of silence while neither of them says anything and then, just as Bellamy got himself in the truck, ready to fly out of there, the man finishes, “They are about to trigger a security protocol. You should hurry.” 

The line cuts off sharply, but Bellamy pays it no mind, tossing the phone into the passage seat. He doesn’t stop to consider that it might be a trap, that there could be a better way. His people are in danger and it's his responsibility to keep them safe.

*****

“We need to go now!” he yells, the minute he spots Harper standing outside the front entrance acting as some guard.

She starts up at his command, looking anxiously over her shoulder from where he appeared, “Bellamy what are you—” 

“Where is everyone else?” he demands, cutting her off and then storming past her into the building when she stumbles over her words. 

The minute he steps inside, he is able to hear Octavia’s distinctive voice. From there it’s quick work to locate her, weaving past pillars and walking up the stairs as Harper follows meekly behind him. 

“Time to go,” he calls out as soon as he knows he’s close, valuing speed over subtly for the moment.  
Octavia lets out a curse when he pops into view, Jasper’s eyes widen into saucers and Raven turns to face him so fast her ponytail whips through the air. He's about to yell at them all to get moving when Clarke suddenly appears and he freezes, the fire in his veins turning to ice. 

All of a sudden, he remembers her phone going to voicemail, the empty clinic, dark and deserted. He never stopped to consider that her disappearance could be connected to everyone else's and now that proof of it is standing in front of him, he doesn’t know what to do. Part of him is tempted to scream, he feels like screaming, but he knows that he’s much more intimidating when he doesn’t, and right now, he needs every ounce of intimidation he’s got. “What the fuck is going on here?!” 

He voices the question to Clarke, but of course, she makes no move to answer him, crossing her arms across her chest in a way that fills him with an urge to shake some sense into her. She holds his gaze, defiance outlined in every aspect of her body, and the frustration burning through him mixes with an emotion far too close to desire for his comfort. It’s a familiar look, her challenging him, but this is far from a familiar situation and that’s enough to bring him crashing back down to reality.

“Talk,” he commands, ripping his eyes from her before he does something stupid, and observing the group in front of him. Every person that he’d assume would be there is; Raven with tech in her hands, Jasper and Monty standing side by side, Octavia looking every bit as defiant as Clarke, and even Murphy, the perpetual unimpressed scowl across his face, but it’s clear that she’s the instigator of this operation. 

If he wasn’t so pissed, he’s thankful that they all have her back like they have his. As it is, he just feels wave after wave of horror overwhelm him. 

His eyes land on Monty and he sees the young man visibly gulp. While every one of them is just as loyal as the next, Monty is the softest of them, the most innocent of them. The easiest to break. “What are you doing here, Monty?” 

Monty’s eyes flit between him and Clarke, unsure of who outranks who in the situation. He should be annoyed, these are his people, but instead, he just feels a dark amusement settle over him. A predatory smile finds its way onto his face, and Monty pales, eyes finally landing back on him. 

Clarke must sense that the young boy is going to crack because she steps forward blocking his view. “Leave him alone. It’s me that you have the issue with.” 

“We need to go,” he tells her sharply, remembering the frantic warning of his mysterious caller. He can yell at them all later when they are out of danger. Right now, leaving has to be more important than getting answers. 

“Okay,” Clarke agrees instantly with ease that he immediately distrusts, “I’ll be right behind you.” 

“No.” The rejection comes out almost like a growl. That is not happening, no way in hell. 

“No?” she responds with a dark glint to her eye. “Are you going to drag me out of here kicking and screaming? Because that’s what it’s going to take.” 

She stares him down, challenging him and he holds her gaze, meeting the challenge. He will do it, pick her up and throw her over his shoulder if that's what it takes to keep her safe, to get her out of this mess, which she must see because she turns away from him without another. 

He follows her form with his eyes as she walks back into what must be an office with all the confidence in the world. _For fuck sakes, what does she think she’s doing?_ He shoves his weapon back into its holder and moves to follow her, shouting over his shoulder at the rest to go. 

“What are you doing Clarke,” he asks in the doorway, trying to be calm and rational. He watches her rifle through papers on the desk, frantically with concern. “This isn’t you.” 

She whirls around to face him, a different type of intensity fueling her movements. “You put me up on some pedestal, Bellamy, and it isn’t fair. I’m not who you think I am.” 

Her words echo around the room, over and over, but they don’t make sense to him; he can’t hear them through the rushing in his ears. She’s standing in front of him with her arms crossed and exasperation on her face, but he can barely see it. All he can see is her standing back in the main area of the warehouse, his crew all around her, but this time, he doesn’t get there fast enough. This time, when he gets there, Dante’s men have already surrounded them. This time, he has to stand by helplessly and watch as she gets a bullet to the head for simply being someone who he cares about. 

“Don’t talk to me about fair.” His voice is coarse, a dark glint to it that he’s continuously tried to keep from touching her. What he’s tried to do, though, doesn’t seem to have mattered in the slightest if the gun tucked into her waistband is any indication. 

She rolls her eyes and something within him snaps. She thinks this is a game, and she should know better. _Why doesn’t she know better?_

“Don’t,” he roars, advancing on her, “Don’t you dare roll your fucking eyes at me!” 

He expects her to back away, to recoil at his temper, but she doesn’t. Instead, she holds her ground, the result of which puts them chest to chest. Their breaths mingle together, both of them releasing ragged bellows at irregular intervals. He looks at her and sees her pupils blown wide. The urge to kiss her is as strong as it’s ever been, but she has other plans. 

“I am so tired of your woe is me act. You got dealt a shitty hand and it sucks, but you’re not the only one! We have all done things—” 

“Oh yeah, I’m so sure,” he cuts her off with a heartless scoff, “What did you do Clarke that was so bad? Cheat on a test once? Drive a few too many miles over the speed limit?” 

He looks at her again and even though her posture is just as defiant as before, there are tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Deep, deep, within him, he feels the stirrings of remorse, but they can’t gain traction over the roaring of his fear, anger, and indignation. 

“Maybe it was a lie, did you lie to someone, Clarke? Tell them what they wanted to hear just to get them off your back? Lead them on?” His accusation hits her hard, he can see its effect from the tremble in her jaw and it sends a rush of satisfaction through him. Tomorrow, he’ll probably hate himself for this, but that just seems fitting. He’s good at hating himself.

She looks at him, her sad eyes still full of compassion despite her clear frustration and he has to resist the impulse to shake her. _What does he have to do to make her realize that this isn’t worth it for her? What more can he say?_

“I don’t like this version of you very much,” she says softly. In an instant, his anger, his frustration, vanish and all he is left with is overwhelming despair. 

“This is who I am, Clarke,” he responds, stretching his arms wide and just praying that his voice doesn’t break, “I’m selfish, I’m reactionary and I’ve got a terrible temper. I’ve done things, Clarke, things you can’t even imagine; things I never want you to imagine. I’m not good and you are, you’re so good that it shines out of you like a guiding star in the night.” 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, tracing her finger back and forth across his chest, but then she steps back with a sorrowful shake of her head. “You see the world so black and white: I’m good, you’re bad, but it’s not that simple. There aren’t purely good people and there aren’t completely bad ones. It’s just everyone doing what they can to survive in a world that’s not always kind or fair.” 

Slowly, she takes another step back and he has to clench his hand into a fist at his side to stop himself from reaching out to her. 

“And until you can figure that out,” she continues, “I can’t do this. I can see the good in you Bellamy, I know that it’s worth it, but until you can see it for yourself, we are never going to work.” 

He knows that it’s for the better, that she’s only doing what he hasn’t had the strength to do. He knows that she needs to be out of his life, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like his heart is being ripped out of his chest when she turns and walks away from him, spearing only one glance back to the desk still riddled with papers. 

Taking a breath, he steadies himself. After all, it’s not just Clarke out there waiting for him. He's nearly positive that the rest of them have disobeyed them and stayed. He needs to be the leader they expect him to be; he owes that to them. 

When he steps out of the office, the entire group is exactly where he left them. He shoots Raven an unimpressed glance; she’s supposed to be the rational one. She just shrugs one shoulder in return as if to say, _what did you really expect?_ He grunts in response, his eyes unconsciously falling back to Clarke, standing beside Octavia stiffly. 

“Can we get the fuck out of here now?” Murphy asks, already moving towards the stairs. The rest of them follow, each naturally falling into their respective positions. Despite himself, Bellamy stays close to Clarke, knowing that out of all them, she’s the most vulnerable. 

They come out of nowhere when they are a few steps from the exit, moving like ghosts through the space and into the light. Instantly, he steps in front of Clarke, trying to block her with his body without making it obvious. The last thing he needs right now is for the enemy to spot her, not when she’s nearly clear of this mess. 

Three, four, five, eight, ten, men step forward, closing in on them, trapping them. In the center is Cage Dante, standing tall and proud in a finely tailored suit with a sneer across his face. 

Bellamy turns to tell her to run, not seeing a way out of this without a gun going off, but she’s already stepping around him. The gun he spotted in her waistband earlier held confidently in her hand and pointed straight at Cage. 

“Griffin,” he greets, the smile on his face turning impossibly slimier. 

“Cage,” Clarke responds coldly, tilting her head to the side in contemplation. 

**End of Part 1**


	8. The unsuspecting victim, of darkness in the valley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited for you all to see this chapter, the cliffhanger of the last chapter was the moment I have been waiting for since I first started posting, and your reactions were everything I hoped for. 
> 
> Okay, I’m going to stop talking and let you read. Here we go,
> 
> # Part 2: I Miss You

Bellamy’s eyes fly back and forth between the two of them trying to make sense of the situation. Clarke knows Cage Wallace and not just knows of him but _knows_ him. There's a familiarity to the way that she’s looking at him, to the way he’s looking at her. A familiarity that Bellamy can’t comprehend. _What the fuck?_

“Put that gun away; we both know that you’re not going to use it,” Cage tells Clarke with a condescending smile. A smile that instantly sets Bellamy on edge. 

Five minutes ago, he would have agreed with the man; he wouldn’t have believed she could shoot a target on a tree a few feet away, but now, she looks like she grew up with a weapon like that in her hand. 

“We both know that I will,” Clarke responds without flinching, her own version of patronizing politeness clear in her tone. Cage raises an eyebrow at her as if daring her to try. 

The air is eerily still as they wait. Bellamy looks at Clarke out of the corner of his eye, not willing to take his focus off the man in front of them, but trying to determine what she is going to do. He used to think he could read her, and now, he has no clue what’s going through her head. She could suddenly shoot Cage in the leg and he’s not sure he’d be surprised. 

It’s insane and confusing, but above everything else, it’s impractical. He’s going to need some warning before bullets start flying if they are all going to somehow make it out of this. 

Still, he bites down the need to say something, fighting the urge to get the attention off her and back onto him, knowing that it would be foolish. Right now, she seems to have control of the situation and he should trust that she can handle it. Trust, however, went right out the window when she pulled out that gun. He trusts _his_ Clarke with his safety, with his heart, with the lives of those most important to him, but it’s abundantly clear to him that the woman standing in front of him isn’t her. 

She may look the same, although he struggles to find anything familiar in the rigid set to her shoulders and the almost bored, careless expression on her face. _His_ Clarke cares, cares to the point that he’s often worried it was detrimental and there isn’t a trace of that to be seen now. He can’t help but wonder if it was ever truly there in the first place. 

He’s reminded how irrelevant all that is right now though, when he hears one of the men suddenly move closer to Octavia. It was only a fraction of movement, barely more than a shuffle, but it still has him tightening his grip on his gun. With a deep breath, Bellamy pushes down the need to take control, to go back to being in charge. He doesn’t know what’s happening and it’s fucking infuriating; he needs something more than what he can get from looking at Clarke and soon. 

Fortunately, Cage seems to lose interest in their standoff before Bellamy’s nerves break. “What are you doing here?” 

“None of your business.” Clarke’s response is sharp and insistent, echoing loudly off the high ceiling. 

“Now, now, Clarke,” Cage paces back and forth in front of them, lecturing her, “you’re in _my_ territory here, you broke into _my_ warehouse. It’s a very precarious situation you’ve gotten yourself into. I’d suggest some caution _and_ some respect.” 

There's a dangerous glint to his eye, one that Bellamy doesn’t like one bit. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have his own weapon in his hand, within seconds he could have a bullet in each of them. They are outnumbered and out skilled; it’s just about as bad as it could be as far as he’s concerned, but Clarke must not have the same fear because she rolls her goddamn eyes at him. “You’re not going to do anything.” 

“Maybe not to you,” Cage agrees with a purposeful shrug of indifference, “but what’s stopping me from taking out your _friends_.” 

The way he says friends ends a shiver down Bellamy’s back, sounding a whole lot more like flies. Beside him, he feels Clarke stiffen, the first real reaction he’s seen from her since this started. “You are going to let us go. All of us.” 

“Or what?” Cage asks, pausing to face Clarke with a grin on his face like this is his idea of a good time. _It probably is,_ Bellamy thinks darkly, feeling like he might be sick. 

“I’ll tell your daddy about the little side hustle you’ve got going.” 

For the first time, Bellamy takes his eyes fully off Cage to look at Clarke. He can tell from the twitch of her jaw that she knows she has his attention, but she keeps her eyes firmly locked on Cage. Watching her, he tries to make sense of the situation. She made the threat with total ease as though blackmailing people is a common occurrence. It's unfathomable and that’s not even taking into consideration the sensitive nature of the information she claims to have. 

“You can’t possibly know that; you’ve been out for years,” Cage retorts with a scoff, but when Bellamy shifts back to look at him, his agitated body language tells him that Clarke knows exactly what she’s talking about. 

“You want to try me?” 

There are another few tense seconds where they stare each other down and then whatever air dignified politeness Cage had been holding onto vanishes. The slimily charming smile on his face turns into a sneer. He pulls at his tie, wrinkling the expensive suit and a different kind of unease settles in Bellamy’s stomach. He takes one look at the way Cage is eyeing up Clarke, and then just reacts. With one hand still on his weapon, pointed directly at the man who is coming more unhinged by the second, he moves closer to Clarke, intending to put her protectively behind him again. 

Cage chuckles darkly. “You’ve trained him well.” 

Clarke just ignores him, walking past Bellamy and then Cage, towards the exit without sparing a glance at either of them. She pauses by a few feet from the door and that seems to spur everyone else into motion. Octavia moves next and then Jasper, Monty, Harper, Murphy, and finally Raven with a meaningful glance at him where he still stands opposite Cage. 

Giving the man one more long careful look, Bellamy moves to follow the group even though every instinct inside him rejects the thought of turning his back on the enemy. He takes small, measured steps, counting his breaths as he moves, every single muscle in his body tight with tension, his knuckles white around the gun lowered at his side. 

“Bitch,” Cage spits out into the quiet just as Bellamy has regained his position beside Clarke. 

The curse isn’t fully out before Bellamy is spinning back to face the man, determined to punch him if shooting him somewhere isn’t an option. He’s a fully loaded spring and he’s finally been pushed to his breaking point. He starts to turn, but Clarke moves just as quickly, grabbing hold of his arm with a surprisingly strong grip. His skin burns where she touches him, a sharp sting that pulls him out of his rage-filled haze. 

He looks down at her, positive that she will be able to see the storm of aggression swirling behind his eyes and back down. Instead, she just holds his eyes with a steady coolness, tightening her hand on his arm until he feels her nails start to cut him. She tilts her head meaningfully towards everyone waiting for them at the exit. 

It's only a matter of seconds, but it feels like a lifetime as he stares at her trying to see what he used to. He looks and he looks until finally, the familiar brightness of her eyes’ peeks through the frost. He lets out a shuddering breath and then nods his head. It's time to go. 

As they turn back to the exit together, he hears Cage laughing in the background, but he doesn’t let it get to him. Somehow, someway, they have managed to make it out of this unharmed, he should be grateful. He is. At least until they pass through the door and Clarke suddenly drops his arm, stepping away from him hastily. 

In an instant, the anger comes back, only this time it’s not directed at the man they left. He waits until they have made it away from the warehouse and into an adjacent parking lot without incident before he turns to Clarke, every muscle in his body still coiled tight in tension despite the relative safety of their location. “Do you have something you’d like to say? Maybe an explanation to enlighten all of us?” 

Despite the forced politeness of his question, it’s clear that he isn’t asking. He can sense the others shifting around them uncomfortably, but he keeps his attention on Clarke, who has frozen a few steps away from him. 

She waits to answer like maybe he’ll just let it go if she takes long enough. When that doesn’t work, though, she turns to look at him, her eyes as hard as he’s ever seen them. “We all have our shit to deal with.” 

Her declaration, a continuation of their fight from earlier, hits him like a physical blow. His eyes harden to match hers, the blood in his veins turning to ice. He wants to yell, to scream, and ask her why, but before he can find the words, ones to accurately convey the hostility cursing through him, she’s turned her back on them and is walking away. 

For a second, he is tempted to scream anyways, to yell loud enough she’ll be able to hear all the ways that she’s fucked up, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just watches in grim satisfaction. She should go, she should know that she is not welcome here. 

“Aren’t you going to go after her?” Octavia asks in exasperation, breaking the eerily silence that surrounds them. 

Bellamy continues to watch Clarke shrink in the distance, a cold resolution settling over him. “No.” 

“Really?” Octavia asks again and when he turns his attention to her, she’s looking at him with a mixture of annoyance and pity. He looks away, observing the group still around him. 

They all seem okay, even Harper doesn’t seem that shaken. It's strange. Other than Octavia, no one has said anything. He looks at them closer and then notices the way none of the younger ones are quite able to meet his eye. 

Right, he realizes, coming out of his Clarke haze, there’s still the fact that they are here at all. He narrows his eyes and they shift uncomfortably, but he leaves it at that. Here is not the place to be having that discussion. “Let’s go.”

*****

“What were you doing there?” he asks, once they are all back at the apartment. Unsurprisingly, they remain tight-lipped, seeming to have been emboldened on the drive home, but he just stares them down harder, meeting each of their individual eyes. Monty and Harper look away, Octavia holds his eyes defiantly while Murphy just smirks at him. “I am going to find out eventually, so you might as well just tell me.”

“Octavia called me,” Jasper cries out after a minute to which Octavia mutters a curse, throwing a pillow at her friend to shut him up. Bellamy looks between the two glaring at each other and idly wonders how this became his life. The tension of the entire encounter still bubbles under his skin, but for now, all he feels is deep-seated exhaustion. 

“She called us too,” Raven informs him, breaking up the silent fight. 

“Wow, Raven so much for fucking solidarity,” Octavia responds, sending a heated look at the other woman. 

Bellamy doesn’t pay that any mind, though, his initial suspicions finally confirmed. For some reason, it always comes back to Octavia with him like some kind of cosmic fuck you. “Talk, O.” 

She squirms under his attention in the same way that she used to when she was a kid who stole a cookie and didn’t want him to know. God, he wishes that he could go back to that, it was all so much simpler then. When he knew better than to trust people, back when disappointment was the rule and not the exception. 

“She was going to go alone,” Octavia finally answers, the defiance still strong in her tone. He just waits, not needing to say anything for her to know that she needs to give a better answer. “I walked into the clinic and there she was with a gun in her hand and a crazed look in her eye, ready to walk right into danger without a second thought.” 

“You should have called me,” Bellamy growls at her, venomously ignoring the stab of fear that passes through him at the thought of Clarke in danger. 

She scoffs like that wasn’t even close to being an option. “It would have taken too long! She wasn’t going to stop and wait. What was I supposed to do? Let her go?” 

“You are supposed to keep yourself safe!” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Octavia cries out, standing up, “The two of you are both idiots. You don’t let your family walk into battle alone. You sure as hell wouldn’t and neither would she, so why do you expect me to?” 

He rises up to match her position. “It’s not the same and you know it! Besides, she’s not family.” Octavia recoils back, looking at him like he’s lost his mind, Jasper lets out a gasp, but Bellamy just keeps his face stern. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” 

“It’s not,” he responds, rubbing his hand across his face and then through his hair. “We don’t know her, not really, tonight proved that.”

“We know the shit that matters,” Octavia responds softly, the heat in her voice suddenly gone. Bellamy looks away, suddenly uncomfortable, but then his gaze lands on Harper who looks close to tears now. 

Looking up at the stained ceiling he curses and then he curses again. This is not the point; Clarke is whatever she is and at some point, he’ll have to deal with that, but for now, his problem is that they all went off without telling him. He's in charge here for a reason and the majority of that reason is to keep them safe. 

“You should have called me,” he looks around the room, “You all should have called me. We don’t know what the ramifications of this are going to be and that’s a fucking problem because it’s my mess to clean up.” 

With one more glance at each of them, he is satisfied enough that if there is a next time at least one of them will make the smart choice and call him which really, is all he can hope for at this point; that they do better. He walks away from them without another word.

*****

He had every intention of falling into bed and passing out from exhaustion when he walked away from them, but the minute he closes the door behind him, Bellamy quickly realizes that sleep isn’t going to be an option anytime soon. She’s all over his room, from the random hair ties scattered across his dresser to the shirt of his she tends to sleep in, tossed over the desk chair where she left it the morning before last.

For a minute, he contemplates leaving, running to escape the smell of her which permeates the space; a smell which used to bring him comfort on the nights she didn’t stay over. Instead, he just stands there with his back pressed against the door, trying to breathe. He stays in that exact position until suddenly, a wave of despair hits him so hard, he’s grateful for the support and then just as quickly, that hurt turns to anger. 

Looking around the small room, he catalogs all the items that are hers, all his things that are now tainted with her touch, and each one fuels the fire of resentment within him. He still doesn’t understand the what or the how, but he knows with certainty that whatever he thought it was, it was a lie. 

Slowly, he hears them moving around on the other side of the door and that only adds another layer of bitterness. He has no doubt that Octavia didn’t give her much of an option, but Clarke still put all of them, people she pretended to care about, in danger. She put them in danger because she was too much of a fucking coward to call him. 

For as angry as he is with all of them out there, the reality is that there was only one phone call that needed to happen and she was the one who should have made it. 

She could have called him; she could have told him what was going on and he wouldn’t have even blinked an eye, that was how wrapped up in her she had him. He would have gone into danger for her willingly, even without a clear picture of why, just because it was her asking. He’s such a fucking fool. 

Maybe it’s because he wants answers, maybe it’s because he feels some masochistic need to punish himself for believing in her, either way, he walks over to the beat-up laptop on his desk rather than his bed. It takes the outdated system a while to boot up, but he doesn’t allow room for doubt to creep in. He’s spent too long avoiding this and since she didn’t seem keen on providing answers herself, it’s time for him to go back to relying on himself; it’s the way it should have always been. 

As soon as it’s loaded, he opens the search engine and types in ‘Clarke Griffin, Arcadia’. The results are instant; pictures, and pictures of her in beautiful gowns at all ages line the top of the page with article after article about her family underneath it. He clicks on the first one, a piece from nearly two years ago, and it brings him to an article memorializing Jake Griffin a decade after his tragic death. 

He reads through it with careful consideration and it doesn’t take much for him to realize that it was no accident. Clarke’s anguish filled eyes as she whispered, _it’s the same_ , replay in his mind. It all makes so much fucking sense now, her reaction, her reluctance for him to come to the funeral. She knew that he’d figure it out. One look at Kane, her fucking stepdad, and he would have known. He would have known, and she couldn’t have that. 

The piece ends with a picture of Clarke at what must be 16, looking small and pale all alone in front of a large black casket, asking where she’s been and he quickly exits away. He doesn’t need to see that, doesn’t need a reminder of how good of an actress she is. 

On and on he goes, clicking on web pages and looking through photo galleries. He watches her grow up in front of the world, disappearing and reappearing at random times. Along the way, he learns more than he ever thought he would know about her family. On the surface, they seem like perfect people living a perfect life and that’s how most people see them, but he knows better. 

It's easy for him to see how world-renowned surgeon Abigail Griffin uses her connections to the medical world to line the streets with drugs while her husband, Marcus Kane, is able to launder the money through his successful company. He reads article after article detailing the ways that the couple, along with the family friend Jaha, give back to the community. Charity gales and programs for troubled youth, running a summer camp for kids. The list goes on and the resentment inside Bellamy grows. 

She knew, she fucking knew what she was setting him up for. It all seems laughably obvious now, her easy acceptance of his ‘work’, her reluctance to talk about herself, even her damn familiarity with a bullet wound right at the very start. She knew, knew what was going to happen to him when he found out and she kept going anyways. 

It was all a lie, the entire thing. For all that she might claim to hate the world, and he can just see that justification coming, she’s very obviously a part of it. Whether it was standing beside her family at an event or running her own program to help kids keep busy over the summer, their world, a world filled with privilege and hypocrisy, was her world. 

Even the darker side of it all, the guns and the drugs, was familiar to her, he realizes without any real surprise. Just as the sun starts to peek over the horizon, he stumbles across an article, written for a random website, by a nobody writer over a decade ago explaining the dark history behind what was reported as a simple, yet tragic, accident at a teenage house party. 

The author emphasizes the importance of two key attendants, Clarke Griffin and Wells Jaha, and their connection to the violent underground world of drugs. Drugs that tended to be in full supply wherever the two are found, according to the writer. After a night of reading all about her life, it’s easy for him to picture. 

A lavish party, the kind that should only exist in over the top teenage dramas, with crowds of bodies all moving to the beat of an overpriced sound system. He can practically see Clarke amongst people, smiling at people in that seductive way of hers and asking them if they want to have some fun, Wells right beside her. They wouldn’t be handing out the drugs themselves, of course, that would ruin their image, but it’s obvious that they are the ones with the connections. Barely even fifteen then, and they were already out dealing to their peers, infecting them with addiction, all to further the empire their families sat on. 

In the back of his mind, Bellamy hears Wells’ warning for what it truly was now. _She’s not perfect,_ he'd told him, _not like you think she is_. He had known what was happening, that Bellamy was getting caught up in a situation that he didn’t understand and still that was all the fucking warning he had to give. That tiny bit of advice, vague as hell, was all he could spare as he watched Bellamy fawning over Clarke like the idiot he was. 

All of them, he can’t help but think bitterly, they are all the same. Only willing to go so far to help, happy to fuck with everyone else as long as it keeps them getting what they want. 

He throws his computer away from him in disgust, feeling a wave of satisfaction when it lands on the other side of the bed with a thump. Clarke’s side of the bed, his mind fills in for him despite his objections. Oh, for fuck sakes. 

Standing up, he runs his hand through his hair in agitation. He needs to get a grip. He needs to sleep; his eyes burn from staring at the screen for so long, but every time he closes them, all he can see is the coldness of Clarke’s final look. Letting out a sigh, he paces around the room. Even if he could close his eyes without feeling the need to punch something, his mind doesn’t seem to be able to shut off. 

Over the last eight hours, he’s learned a lot, but he still has questions. A lot of things still don’t make sense. There wasn’t a single post about her clinic. In fact, there was nothing about her life at all for the last couple of years. The only recent picture of her he found was from Wells’ funeral. 

Despite himself, he reaches over to grab the computer again. He never found any social media accounts, he wasn’t looking for them, but maybe they will hold the answers he seeks. He does a quick search for the account Octavia has that she thinks he doesn’t know about, confident that he will be able to find Clarke through her. 

He scrolls through her photos, a quite frankly ridiculous number of photos, and a pattern quickly becomes clear. There are tons of pictures with Jasper, Monty and Harper, and even a few with him, but there are none with Clarke, absolutely none. Not even from occasions where he knows for certain that she was with them. 

That alone wouldn’t be damming, maybe Clarke doesn’t like her photo taken, he can’t see how after looking through pages of her photos, but it’s a possibility. The problem comes from the fact that there’s not one photo taken at the clinic. The rage that had calmed to a simmer as he researched, suddenly, comes rushing back to the surface. 

Octavia knew. She fucking knew. 

He’s out of his seat and racing across the hall without another thought, not caring at all about the sleeping people he might be disturbing on his rampage. The door to her room swings open, banging against the wall and startling her awake. “Did you know?” 

She blinks up at him, rubbing her hand across her eyes clearly still partially asleep. “What?” 

“Did you know?” he repeats slowly, an uncomfortable amount of desperation in his tone. She hesitates even after it’s evident that she understands the question, which tells him all he really needs to know. “Of course, you fucking knew.” 

“I didn’t—” she starts to say, standing up from her bed and coming towards him, but it’s too late. _How could he be so damn blind?_ He knows how and that just makes it all worse. 

He knew her full name, the memory of laughing at her driver's license photo, Clarke Griffin staring straight back at him, flashes across his mind. He knew that her childhood best friend was Wells Jaha. He knew that while Kane is the name behind it all now, well over a decade ago, back when he was nothing more than an errand boy for his stepdad’s whims, that wasn’t the case. 

Back then, before the merge, the Griffin, Jaha, and Kane organizations were all separate, each with their own leader plainly visible by anyone in the know. He doesn't know what happened, why they merged together and only one name remained, but he knew that it happened. He knew it all, but for some reason, he chose not to see it. 

And she chose to let him not see it. 

The fire that had been brewing inside him for the last 12 hours gets a little hotter. 

Octavia pauses a few steps away from him, wrapping her arms around her. “It’s not like that.” 

“Like what?” he asks for the hell of it, a bitter laugh threatening to escape his lips. 

“She didn’t tell me. I just sort of figured it out.” 

The laugh breaks through then. _How is it better that he was the only one to miss it?_ Miller’s shocked face when he mentioned that Clarke was at Wells’ funeral pops into his head. Miller knew too; everyone knew. God, he’s such a fucking idiot. 

“I recognized the name, not immediately, but after a while it made sense.” 

“And what did she say when you confronted her about it?” 

“I didn’t,” she starts to claim, but he cuts her off with a sharp glare. He knows her. Octavia doesn’t just let things go. She remains defiant for a second and then lets out a soft sigh.“She didn’t say much.” 

“Of course, she didn’t,” he mutters, unsurprised. 

“I didn’t realize that you didn’t know... I don’t think she did either.” He lets out a scoff, leveling her with a look. He didn’t think that she was that naïve. “At least not at first.” 

“And what was the excuse later?” he asks, his annoyance with Clarke bleeding over to Octavia and this pointless conversation. 

She just shrugs helplessly at him. “It’s not part of her life anymore.” 

“Come on O, you don’t really believe that. If you did, you would have been posting photos with her, ones at the clinic.” 

If she’s surprised to learn that he knows about the posts, she doesn’t show it, too wrapped in trying to defend Clarke. “She wanted to protect us. Even though she walked away, people still know her face. She didn’t want any of her family’s enemies to come after us... which is exactly the same reason you adamantly refused to acknowledge she was anything other than your friend.” 

“It’s different.” 

“How?” Octavia cries out in exasperation. She doesn’t get it and honestly, he’s glad that she doesn’t; he hopes that she never feels this type of betrayal. 

“Because she lied, O. I was completely honest from the very start. I needed her to know who I was because I didn’t want her getting into something she didn’t understand and she couldn’t be bothered to give me the same fucking courtesy.” 

“She didn’t mean—” 

“She did though!” he argues back, not understanding why she isn’t more upset about this. “It was purposeful, all of it. She manipulated us to trust her and then took that trust and abused it. She fucking played with us, used us like all of them do without a second thought.” 

“Stop!” Octavia instructs sharply, “You don’t mean any of it. You’re mad and that’s fair, but later you’re going to realize—"

“There’s not going to be later, O.” 

She rolls her eyes like he’s being ridiculous, but then she catches sight of his stern express and her eyes widen. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he tells her, meaning every word. As tempting as it might be, he can’t go back, can’t pretend that she isn’t who she is, not now when she’s proven all of his worst assumptions. 

“It’s not like you’re making it out to be. She’s not the person you’re turning her into. You know that; you’ve seen it.” 

For a second, images of her flood his mind. Her smiling at him over a patient's head, lying in bed watching him with a playful grin. How broken her voice was when she called to tell him about Wells and how fragile she looked waiting for him after the funeral. They flash one after another, threatening to break him, but he pushes them away, strengthening his resolve. “It doesn’t matter, it’s too late.”


	9. Your voice of treason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry, with all the craziness of yesterday I totally forgot to put this up, but hey, at least now you have less time to wait until the next chapter. 
> 
> I hope you all like this, it’s one of, if not, my favorite chapter.

The next week passes for Bellamy in a haze of anger and regret. He works, harder than he has in years; he wonders, tries to figure out how it all went to hell, but most of all, he waits. Every second of every day, he is on alert, apprehensive of the moment when the rest of his life falls apart. It's coming, he now realizes that it had been for a while, he’d just missed the signs. 

With the state of everything now, alone, after being betrayed by the first person he’d ever really dared to trust, others might think that it has already gotten as bad as it could get, but he knows that’s wrong. The world is a cruel place and he should have remembered that. 

His intuition is proven correct only a few days later when Octavia looks into his room just afternoon, all dressed up, looking ready to go out. 

“Where?” he asks with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Aside from school, she hasn’t really left him or the apartment. He thought that it was because she understood, but now he’s not sure at all. 

“The clinic,” she responds easily, but there’s a steal in her eyes which dares him to say anything against her plans. It's a dare that he’s more than willing to take. 

“No.” 

Her jaw clenches together, a sure sign that she’s losing her patience, but she manages to push the irritation down after a moment. “You don’t get to say that.” 

“The hell, I don’t,” he tells her sharply, getting off his bed and moving towards her, not having the will or the desire to push his own frustrations down. 

“I gave you a week because I know you are hurt—” 

He scoffs. Clarke didn’t hurt him; she fucked him over, manipulated him, and lied to him, but she didn’t hurt him. Really, all she did was remind him why he doesn’t get involved with anyone, not like that. He has his sister; he has the delinquents. He doesn’t need anyone else. 

Almost as if she can read his thoughts, Octavia just barely suppresses an eye roll. There’s a taste of her own sharpness to her reprimand when she continues, though. “I get it, Clarke fucked up. I’m not trying to dismiss that or whatever, but it’s time to move past it. You need to stop punishing her and stop punishing yourself. It’s not a sin to care, Bell.” 

“It’s not…” he runs his hand through his hair. Fuck. He can’t do this with her again. A clean break is what they need, both of them because Clarke sure as hell hasn’t been trying to get in touch with him. “I’m not punishing her, Octavia. It’s not even about Clarke.” 

“Like fuck it’s not.” 

“It’s not,” he tells her seriously, and then when she looks at him with clear disbelief written across her face, he continues. “At least not directly. We don’t know what Cage is thinking now or when he’s going to make a move.” 

“He’s not...” Octavia starts to say, but he talks over her before she can gain momentum. 

“You don’t know that! It’s not safe.” 

She crosses her arms petulantly, knowing that arguing with him would be pointless. For a second, he thinks that she’ll back down, but then she looks him up and down critically. “Fine, come with me then.” 

“What?” 

“Come with me if it’s so dangerous. Plus, then she can fix you up,” she says with a pointed look at his busted-up hand. He flexes the fingers and the cracked skin across his knuckles burns. He really should have iced them last night when he got home. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Oh yeah, you’re doing just fucking fantastic,” Octavia responds, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “Well?” 

He shifts uncomfortably but says nothing. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she remarks and it’s clear that she’s disappointed in him, but he’s more concerned by the fact that she’s turned out of his room and is walking towards the exit. 

“Octavia,” he calls out in irritation, following after her. 

“Make a choice,” she tells him, still walking towards the door, “you come with me, or I go alone.” 

“Or you just don’t go!” 

She whips around to look at him, “I’m not going to let her just lose everybody because you are pissed at her.” 

“Clarke has other people; she has an entire fucking family. She doesn’t need you to keep her company.” 

“If you stopped for a second and actually, maybe talked to her, you’d know that she doesn’t. We are her family.” She takes a few more steps towards the door and then looks at him over her shoulder, “Are you coming?” 

He lets out a curse of indignation and goes to follow her, but it’s like his feet won’t move. His whole body is locked in place, venomously rejecting the idea of seeing her, and no matter how hard he tries to fight it, his feet stay frozen in place. “I can’t.” 

She watches him for a moment, then her eyes soften slightly and she nods her head. “I’ll be careful, okay? I’ll go straight there and stay there. She’ll probably insist on driving me back too.”

Letting out a sigh, he nods his acceptance and then watches her walk out the door, the pit in his stomach growing with every step she takes.

*****

After that, the anxiety gets worse. Octavia continues to go out, leaving each time with a pointed look at him and a remark about whatever injury he’s managed to acquire, and each time, he gets a little bit closer to following her. An urge which only increases once he notices that Clarke is only dropping Octavia and whoever she’s got with her off at the apartment after they’ve been together, she also starts detouring to pick them up before.

The first time it happened, he watched through the window, just out of sight, equal parts hoping and dreading whatever glance he might catch of her. After that, it just became a strange custodial handoff where neither of them talks to each other. He drops them off on the street outside the clinic and then she returns them to him hours later. 

It’s bizzare and weird, not to mention concerning, but every time he points it out to Octavia, she brushes him off. She tells him that there’s nothing to worry about, that Clarke knows what she’s doing. From where he’s standing, though, Clarke seems to be concerned too; she never used to have an issue with them taking the bus. 

When he mentions that. Octavia walks away with nothing more than a huff and an annoyed, "If it’s bothering you so much just talk to her." 

He doesn’t, of course, but the temptation grows. 

Octavia wants him to trust Clarke. Trust, though, is hard. Especially since he still doesn’t really understand what it is that Clarke has got a good handle on. Nearly three weeks of searching and he still hasn’t got the faintest clue what it is that she’s supposedly got on Cage. Late at night, when he lies awake watching the spiders crawl across the ceiling, he wonders if she even has anything or if it was just once again a giant bluff. 

It wouldn’t be the first con game she’s pulled after all. 

Life goes on, work is busy, he passes the kids back and forth with relative ease, and then when the anger and resentment become too strong, he goes out and finds some away to release the tension. Sometimes it’s a punching bag, those are the days where he doesn’t hate himself for what he let her do, other times it’s some asshole who is easy to incite. 

Once, right at the very start, when the wounds were freshest, he tried to find an escape in someone else, but he couldn’t even make it through a conversation without feeling like he was going to be sick. After that, he doesn’t bother to try again. What’s the point, when it’s so much easier to live in anger. 

The confusion, the concern, they continue until suddenly, he snaps. He doesn’t call, doesn’t make any sort of plans. He's just driving through town one night a few days into March and then suddenly, he’s taking the turn to where he knows she lives. He needs answers and he’s going to make her give them to him. 

If he’s honest with himself, the reason he held out so long was that he was sure she’d call, that somehow, in some way, she’d reach out. He waited, thinking, hoping, that she’d at least have the decency to do that much. Really, he thinks he deserves that much, but apparently, he was wrong on all counts. 

It's that anger, the desire to tell her that she was wrong, mixed with the consent fear of what’s coming that gets him out of the truck and to the front door of the building. A very fancy building, he notes with revulsion as he walks into the lobby and garners the attention of a concierge. 

Pristine marble floors and carefully manicured gardens, a man out front in a suit to keep undesirable people out. He knew, of course, that this is where she lived, but only in the vaguest sense; a street name and number that he didn’t care to register, in the same way, her last name never clicked. 

But it’s here, right in front of him now, proof that this is her life. He wonders a little masochistically what she thought of his place with its dully painted walls and flickering lights, of the elevator that hasn’t worked in years. Was she uncomfortable there, amidst the used furniture and crowded spaces? Did she look at it all and judge him for it, pity him? 

He's sure that she did and looking around her home, he can't even blame her for it. The difference between the two places is stark. A physical representation of the differences between them. _What the hell was he thinking? Why did he ever think they could work?_

Just as he’s about to turn around, find something to distract him from his spiral into self-hate, when the answer comes unbeknownst into his head. He thought they could work because she lied, kept part of her life, key parts of herself, from him. He went into it knowing there were differences, but believing they could be overcome. And they could have, he knows that with certainty. It was working, they were working. It wasn’t him that blew them up. 

Once again, the anger is enough to keep pushing him forward. Walking up to the desk, he tells the man that he’s here to see Clarke Griffin with the politest smile he can muster and then waits while he presumably calls up to make sure she’s interested in seeing him. He’s only slightly surprised when the man gives him the go-ahead to go up, prompting him with a floor and room number when he hesitates for a moment too long. 

For a second, as soon as she opens the door, he’s totally overwhelmed by simply being near her. Her hair is shorter, her face a little thinner. There are shadows under her eyes, unyieldingly dark and for a split second, he feels concern tug at his chest. 

“Bellamy?” Clarke says in confusion, startling him out of his observations. 

A month ago, he would have smirked at her and teased her about who else could have been visiting her late at night. The impulse is still there, but then he remembers that he’s never been here before, that she could have any number of visitors and he’d never have known and just like that, any feelings of nostalgia which might have been his undoing vanish. He pushes past her into the apartment. “Didn’t your butler tell you I was coming up?” 

She doesn’t react at all to his dig, which only serves to further incite him. She should be angry or annoyed. Some kind of emotion; anything, just something to show that he mattered at all to her. Instead, she closes the door slowly and then turns to face him. 

When he meets her eyes, he is once again startled by the coldness he sees there. At some point, he will hopefully stop being surprised when she shows him exactly who she is, but that time isn’t now. She’s familiar and foreign all at the same time and it’s too much. 

Gulping, he looks away from her and instead directs his attention to the space around them. There really isn’t much to see, the place is totally bare of personality. For all the time they spent together, he doesn’t recognize one item around him. 

A tense silence descends on them, made more uncomfortable by the fact they used to be able to sit without talking for hours with ease. He watches her shift back and forth in front of the door with satisfaction. It doesn’t escape his notice that she hasn’t asked if he’s okay, a question which would have been out of her mouth within seconds of him showing up before. 

The lack of concern for him stings. The fact that she isn’t frantic to make sure everyone else is okay, pisses him off. He can accept that she never cared for him in the way he thought, but he’d believed that her relationship with the others was more genuine. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

“What are you doing here, Bellamy?” she asks, finally breaking the quiet. 

When he looks back at her, exhaustion is clear on every line of her body, but he is beyond caring. “Really? Nearly a month with nothing and that’s all you have to say to me?” 

For one brief, foolishly hopeful second, he thinks she’s going to fight back, to finally talk to him even if all she’s doing is yelling, but then the fire in her gaze seems to collapse in on itself and he is once again left looking at a shell of the woman he used to know. 

“I can’t do this right now.” 

She starts to walk past him as though she would be happy to leave him standing in her living room if it would only mean she can get out of this conversation, but he doesn’t let her get that far. Reaching out, he wraps his hand around her wrist, holding her in place. 

There's a flash of concern in her eye when she spots his busted-up hand, red and irritated because he can’t seem to give it enough time to heal before he’s punching something or someone again. He waits with bated breath for her offer to fix it up, but it never comes. 

Then her eyes move back up to meet his and whatever concern he might have imagined is long gone. When she speaks there’s a frigid stillness to her voice. “Get your hand off of me.” 

“You used to like my hands on you,” he responds with a cruel smirk.

“Yeah,” she relents with careful indifference, but he can see a hint of something equally dark in her expression and he relishes being able to break through her practiced pose, “things change. Let go.” 

This time there’s an undeniable command to her directions, so he lets go, trusting that she’s not going to try and run away again. He doesn’t think she will, not now that she knows he’ll just follow her back to her bedroom if she tries to leave, because really, that would be a bad idea for both of them. 

“Why are you here?” she repeats. 

This time he decides to give her the answer he should have the first time. “What do you have on Cage?” 

Her eyes widen in confusion, then understanding, and he feels his chest tighten, uncomfortable with the idea that she can read him as easily as ever. She moves away from him again, but this time she goes in the direction of a line of high-backed stools around her island. He watches warily as she seats herself and then turns to face him. 

“How much do you know?” she asks, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. 

Bellamy starts to answer, but before he’s got the words out, a patch of angry red skin around her arm catches his eye. He takes a step closer to examine it and then comes to a sudden stop, horror washing over him. It’s not just a random patch of red, it’s finger marks; his finger marks. 

_What the fuck is he doing?_ He shouldn’t be here, if that wasn’t clear when he started yelling, it’s abundantly clear now. For some reason, he can’t be around her and think rationally; he loses all control, and when he loses control, shit like this happens. While he might be furious at her right now, can barely look at her, he sure as hell knows she doesn’t deserve this from him. 

He starts to move back hastily, to get out of there before he erupts, destroying everything and everyone in his path, but she grabs hold of him before he can. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s really fucking not,” he tells her, looking resolutely at a painting on her wall. 

Even though he isn’t looking, he can tell that she’s shaking her head in dismissal. “It will be gone in like 20 minutes.” 

“That is so not the point,” he responds, turning to face her again and running his free hand through his hair when her indifference is confirmed. He looks down at her fingers closed around his arm, nearly the same lock he had her in and wants to be sick. Really, he wants to run away from her and he could, her hold is loose enough for him to break, but still, he stays. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m not good for you—” 

“For fuck's sake, can we be done with this already?” she cries out in frustration. 

“No.” He doesn’t know when she decided that it was okay for people to treat her like this, but it is just as alarming to him as it’s ever been. He will never be okay with it, never, but she doesn’t seem to care. 

“I think it’s very clear now that I knew exactly what I was getting into with you,” she explains, stepping closer to him. “I knew the world; I knew the danger and the problems and still, I chose it. Can you please stop feeling guilty for it?” 

The plea helps focus him, reminding him why he's there. It doesn't abate the guilt, though. He'll get back to that, but first, he needs to make sure she knows that what happened was unacceptable. Images of his Mom with similar markings around across her body flash in his memory. No matter what the woman before him has done, he needs her to know that it's not okay. He won’t let that cycle start with him. 

“That doesn’t make this—” he gestures towards her arm, “okay.”

She pauses for a second and then the fight seems to deflate out of her. “No, but it makes it understandable.” 

“That's how it always starts, Clarke! They never 'mean it'. They're always an 'understandable' excuse! You—” he heaves a breath, pushes his palms into his eyes, and stops himself from continuing. He needs to take a step back from this, from her. The angry lines on her forearm stare back at him, proof that he can’t afford to lose his temper around her. 

“You want to know about Cage, right? What I have on him?” she asks suddenly, and he wants to glare at her because she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

Instead, he just lets out a tired sigh. She isn't his responsibility. Not anymore. Octavia and the others are. To take care of them, he needs answers to his questions. “Yes.” 

"Okay then.” She moves back to settle on her chair. “Cage is trying to create a new highly addictive drug with the hopes of invading the drug market.” 

“Your family’s domain,” he mutters, some of his bitterness returning. 

“Yes,” she answers shortly, “I know you don’t like it, and you sure as hell better believe that I don’t either, but there’s a system to it all. Unspoken rules and boundary lines that keep this city from falling to pieces.” 

“So what?” Bellamy asks, trying to figure it out, “Cage wants to cause chaos, what else is new. Isn't that what you people do for fun?” 

She ignores his sarcasm with the cold indifference he’s begining to expect. “No, that is not what they want. Chaos isn’t good for anyone; it isn’t good for business. It most certainly isn’t what Dante wants.”

“Dante doesn’t know...” he says slowly, remembering her threat more clearly now. 

“No and Cage can’t have him knowing about it or he’d be shut down. There's also the fact that he’s testing out the new drug on his Dad’s men. Hooking them on it...” 

“Fuck that’s... he’s positioning himself for a takeover,” Bellamy realizes with horror. As much as he hates to admit it, she was right. The system they have right now might be broken, but there at least is a system. If Cage, who from every story he’s been told has been described as a ruthlessly cruel man, takes over one of the largest weapon empires, it’s going to turn into a bloodbath. 

He looks to Clarke, hoping that she will have come to the same conclusion as him and have some plan to prevent it, but all she does is shrug. Whether it’s because she doesn’t know any more than what she’s told him or because she just doesn’t care, he isn’t sure. It does remind him though of why he came here and that they aren’t what they used to be. 

Taking a step back, he puts some more space between them. He doesn’t ask her why she hasn’t done anything with the information or even how it is that she came to know about Cage’s dirty secrets, it doesn’t matter. The fact that she knew and didn’t say anything is enough. 

It’s time for him to go.

Because he’s weak, he looks at her one last time, meeting her eyes, and giving her the chance to show him something to make him stay. He holds her gaze for what feels like an eternity and then he looks away disgusted with himself. It is what it is and he needs to get over it. Continuously looking for something that’s not there, wishing for something that’s not there, has never helped him. 

He now knows that Cage isn’t going to come after any of them, that’s what matters, that was the purpose of this trip. He did what he came to do. 

“I’m going to tell Octavia and them not to come around anymore,” he tells her, pausing with his hand on the door. 

“No.” 

Her response is so sudden and desperate that he turns back to face her without a second of hesitation. She sounded more like his Clarke with that one word than she had throughout the entire conversation. He looks at her, thinking he’ll see what he used to, but of course, he doesn’t. She’s still sitting in her chair with her back rigidly straight and her head held high, her face clear of emotion. 

He laughs because there’s really no other suitable response. It's so fucked up. She cares and then she doesn’t care; she wants to take and take, but never wants to give back. She begged him not to leave her alone and then walked away from him without a backward glance. He laughs and then he walks out the door. 

There’s nothing else to be said.

*****

By the time he makes it back to the ground floor, the anger and disappointment that was so strong in her presence have tempered back into the dull throb that seems to be his constant companion now. In its own strange way, it’s almost comforting in its familiarity. It's much easier than the conflicting hope that threatens to consume him when he’s near her.

There’s an unexpected chill to the air when he finally makes it back outside, running down his spine and making him feel cold despite the jacket that’s still on his shoulders. He looks up and sees the moon high in the sky, realizing suddenly just how much time he lost talking to her. Another shiver goes through him; just like that, she was able to suck him back in. 

Despite the late hour and the cold wind though, he stays locked in place a few steps from the doorway. Closing his eyes, he tries to make peace with what just happened. She looked wrong, his mind tells him relentlessly, overtired to the point of illness. Just as relentlessly, he attempts to push the concern down, but it doesn’t work. She was cold and stiff, it’s not right; it’s not her. 

Seeking any kind of distraction to the torment of conflicting emotions in his head, Bellamy opens his eyes and looks around the parking lot. He doesn’t really expect to find anything, it must be past midnight at this point and the space was mostly deserted when he arrived, but he does. 

When his eyes land on a figure watching him intently from across the road, an entirely different kind of shiver passes through him. For one brief second, he considers going around the corner to grab his gun from the truck before he confronts the stranger, but that thought quickly disappears. He doesn’t know if this mysterious man is here for him or Clarke and he’s not going to take the chance that he’s wrong. Not when that chance would leave her defenseless. 

Decision made; Bellamy shoves his hands in his pockets hoping that the threat of a weapon appearing is enough to deter the man from escalating. The truth is that he can bluff just as well as Clarke even if he chooses not to nowadays. 

The man doesn’t make any move to close the distance between them nor does he make any attempts to run away now that Bellamy has spotted him. Instead, he just continues to stand there, completely still, watching. 

“You need to leave,” Bellamy calls out as he starts to walk, making sure to put every ounce of intimidation into his voice. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but it never hurts to establish authority early on and something is telling him that he’s going to need it. 

That intuition is proven correct when a car drives down the road, illuminating the figure. A figure that Bellamy can recognize easily. Ripped arms and dark skin, he might not have been a regular at the clinic like some, but Bellamy is positive he’s seen him more than once. 

Picking up his pace, Bellamy crosses the street in haste. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you need to go!” 

“It’s not like—” the man starts to say as soon as Bellamy is within speaking distance of him, but he doesn’t care. There's an eerie calmness to him, a serenity, that Bellamy does not like one bit. 

"Spare me whatever bullshit you're about to spout. I don't give a fuck who you are or what you think you're doing here." His voice drops dangerously as he leans into the man's space, disregarding that the other man is actually far larger than he is, "Stay the fuck away from her." 

“Bellamy.” 

“How do you know my name?” Bellamy practically growls at him, his heart beating frantically in his chest. There is a slim, slim possibility that he knows his name from talking to Clarke at the clinic, but instinctively, he knows that isn’t why. More importantly though, if he knows his name and Clarke’s name, he probably knows Octavia’s as well. Fuck. 

“Bellamy, it’s okay,” the man repeats, his voice the same steady rumble. 

He’s about to tell him that it’s far from being fucking okay when the familiarity of the voice hits him. The phone call, the one that both saved him and ruined him. Like a physical blow, he steps back in shock. _What the fuck?_

“It’s okay,” the man claims again, except this time Bellamy mostly believes him. He looks the man up and down with new understanding, seeing the potential that he couldn’t before. 

“Clarke knows you’re out here?” Bellamy asks, needing clear confirmation if he’s ever going to be able to leave. 

“Yeah, she probably assumes I am.” 

Bellamy narrows his eyes at the man. Assumes is not good enough for him. “Does she pay you to be here?” 

“No…” the man hesitates for a second, “Her parents do.” 

Rolling his eyes, Bellamy is instantly reminded that this isn’t his problem anymore. “Same thing. You’re paid to protect her.” 

“Paid to? Only in the strictest sense. I’m charged with watching her,” the man clarifies and the uncomfortable feeling settles back into Bellamy’s stomach. The tired look in her eye flashes before him and the worry comes back. He really fucking hates how much he still cares; that he still cares at all. “Neither Clarke nor her parents take kindly to any interference." 

“But you did interfere right?” Bellamy asks only a little hesitantly, “That was your voice.” 

For the first time, the man in front of him looks a little uncertain. He's still imposing, but some of the illusion is broken as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “It was... I’m Lincoln.” 

Bellamy almost refuses to take the man’s offered hand, still not altogether comfortable with him. He does work for Kane, after all, and while he can’t say he trusts Clarke right now, he knows for sure that he doesn’t trust Kane. He almost doesn’t, but then he remembers the urgency in the man’s voice when he told him to hurry and he knows that he owes him at least the courtesy of a handshake. 

“You watch Clarke?” he questions because he’s still stuck on that phrasing, “Make sure that she’s okay?” 

“It’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know...” 

Bellamy scoffs, “Oh trust me, I have all the information I need.” 

“No, you don’t,” Lincoln tells him emphatically. “There are things about her life, about her past that haven't been explained.” 

“Of course,” Bellamy responds sarcastically, “it’s all just some game. Some fabrication. Is anything about her real?” 

“She’s definitely not what she seems, but not like you’re thinking.” 

For a second, Bellamy is tempted to argue, to demand answers from this man in the way he wanted to from Clarke, but in the end, he just shakes his head in disgust and walks away without another word. She’s not his concern anymore and he needs to remember that.


	10. I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry I missed the update on Saturday if anyone was looking for it, my computer broke and I just didn't have the will power to try and do it from my phone lol

Bellamy lets out a tired sigh as he walks up the stairs to the apartment a few days later. Sleeping was supposed to get easier after he talked to Clarke; she was going to reassure him that she had the whole situation with Cage handled and that would be the end of it, but of course, that’s not the case. While she told him what he wanted to know and despite the millions of questions he has, Bellamy can now trust that retaliation isn’t imminent, it doesn’t seem to have helped. 

He still lies awake at night thinking, unable to make his mind stop. He thinks about Cage and the destruction that his aspirations will cause, worries about how the fallout will impact the people he cares about. Then in the moments where he is able to let thoughts of that dire future go, he hears Lincoln’s voice in his head, telling him over and over that he’s missing something important when it comes to Clarke. Even now, in the light of day with people passing him by, he’s not able to fully escape the thoughts. 

Stopping in front of his door, he lets his head rest against the wooden surface, and his eyes fall shut. He needs a fucking break; something, anything to go right, to be easy. He’s just about to turn the doorknob, resigned to another long evening and even longer night, and when the sound of voices register. One voice in particular. 

“Really, Octavia? I get that you are upset by what happened, it’s not exactly great for me either, but it is what it is. There's no changing that.” He can practically feel Clarke’s irritation bleeding through the door; he can almost see her pacing back and forth. “Honestly, what did you think? That your brother and I would just lock eyes and suddenly everything would be better? We aren’t characters in one of your romantic comedies!” 

Part of him feels like he should go break up the argument, but the rest of him, the majority of him, is content to remain the unobserved spectator. He’s been dealing with Octavia’s nagging for weeks, it’s rather nice to know that Clarke has been receiving the same treatment. 

“If you would just talk...” he hears Octavia whines, but Clarke is on a roll, continuing before Octavia can finish whatever complaint she has. 

“And besides that, calling me, frantically, pretending that Jasper had hurt himself just to get me over here when he is, in fact, perfectly fine is so far out of line, I don’t even have words. I was worried! Do you get that!"

“I just thought,” Octavia starts and Bellamy winces, knowing that it was the absolute wrong thing to say. 

“You didn’t think!” Clarke practically yells. He hears someone or maybe more than one someone moves around and his interest is piqued. “None of you did!” 

“It wasn’t my idea,” he hears Monty defend himself. 

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t,” Clarke responds after a moment sounding slightly calmer, “but you didn’t stop her either. Nor did you call me to tell me that half of Jasper’s finger didn’t get cut off while you were trying to play some stupid game.” 

Jasper lets out a laugh and then quickly stops. Against his will, Bellamy feels the corners of his lips turn up in a grin. He's more than familiar with their antics; Jasper and Monty possess an incredible ability to take harmless items and turn them into hazards. Curtains set of fire, benign food turned poisonous, a simple pencil turned into a deadly object, he’s seen it all. 

For a split second, he feels a pang of sympathy for Clarke. She actually sounds like she was worried and she would have been. The idea of the group of them accidentally hurting themselves with one of their projects is perfectly reasonable. He's about to go in there and reprimand them himself when Octavia’s voice stops him. 

“Don’t you miss him?” 

“Of course, I miss him!” Clarke responds, an entirely different emotion coating her voice; one that makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “I miss him all the time. When I wake up in the morning and he’s not there or when it’s 9 at night and I don't realize it because he hasn’t come to tell me to stop for dinner. I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, and each hurts in its own way, but this is the first time it feels like I'm missing a physical piece of me.” 

“Then talk to him!” He’s not sure who says it so wrapped up in her confession, maybe Octavia, maybe Harper, maybe a combination of all of them. 

“I did,” Clarke says after a moment. 

“What?” 

“When?” 

“How did I miss that?” 

“No wait,” Clarke says, cutting them all off, “a few days ago. No, don’t get any ideas, Octavia. It wasn’t like that. He wanted to know— he was worried about all of your safety, so we talked. I told him what I knew and that was it.” 

“That was it??” Octavia questions in outrage. 

“That was it,” Clarke confirms and if she sounds a little sad, well, Bellamy is sure that it’s all in his head. She doesn’t wish it was more, especially not after what else happened. The red fingerprints on her arm flash across his mind. “If I wasn't sure he didn’t want to talk to me before, I am positive now.” 

“I don’t believe it,” Octavia responds stubbornly, probably crossing her arms. 

He pictures Clarke shrugging. “Well, I can’t change that, but it’s true. He practically ran out of there. He doesn’t want to be around me.” 

_Wait,_ Bellamy thinks confused, _what?_ Sure, he was fucking pissed, still is in a lot of ways, but it’s never been him that closed that door. She was the one that pulled away, she was the one that turned cold and shut him out. All he’s wanted this entire time was a goddamn explanation. If she wants to give him one, he’s been right here waiting. 

He barely has time to step back from the door before it is being pulled open. Clarke walks out, head down, rummaging through the bag. She's probably looking for her keys; she was never great at keeping track of them. Blatantly, he realizes that he totally should have recognized her car out front. 

“Clarke,” he says for lack of something better to say. It’s thrown him off, hearing her just like she used to be. There wasn’t a trace of the coldness he’s experienced, not any, and it doesn’t make sense.

She looks up at his voice, startled. For a second, he thinks that maybe she’ll finally talk to him. Her eyes are wide and blue and clear as she studies him, but then she looks away, seemingly flustered. “Octavia called and I didn’t— she said that— you heard?” 

Despite her question, he makes no attempt to answer her. Instead, all of his attention is focused on her. The shadows under her eyes are more apparent now even though she’s clearly put some effort into covering them up. There's something very clearly off with her and he can’t help but feel like it has very little to do with what just happened. 

“Anyways, I wasn’t—” she gestures between the two of them, and then towards the door behind her, the keys ring around her finger jiggling as she moves. “I’m going.” 

She sets off again, purpose in her steps this time. The further she goes though, the tighter the grip on his chest gets. “Clarke.” 

His voice rings out loud in the deserted hallway, stopping her movements with starting success. Yet, despite her pause, she doesn’t turn around. The seconds drag on and Bellamy starts to wonder as he observes her familiar figure in the dim light from the dirty window at the end of the hall, how they got here. How they got here and if there’s some possible way for them to move forward in a way that’s better than who they’ve been going. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Her whispered apology, accompanied by the subtle rise of her shoulders in what he can only describe as a sigh, is so quiet that he’s not sure if he was supposed to hear it. Before he gets the chance to ask her, to hopefully get some long-desired clarification, she’s moving back towards the stairs at a rapid pace. 

Even though he calls out to her again, she doesn’t stop and suddenly he’s possessed by the urge to grab her, to make her stay, and tell him what she meant. For a split second, he considers chasing after her, but then those red marks flash across his mind again and he quickly comes to his senses. 

Still, he can’t manage to totally let her go. He watches from the window as she gets safely to her car and drives away, only then turning back to the door to his apartment. Opening the door, he is instantly greeted by the sight of Octavia, Jasper, Monty, and Harper all huddled around the cluttered coffee table. 

“Geez, took you long enough,” Octavia tells him as he pulls off his jacket and unlaces his boots. “I thought you were going to be home like 40 minutes ago.” 

“Stop meddling, O.” 

“I wasn’t,” she denies quickly, but he levels her with a stern glare and her eyes widen in excitement. “Oh, did you see her in the hall? What did she say?” 

“That you need to stop meddling,” he deadpans. 

“She did not,” Octavia says with an eye roll, getting up from her spot on the ground and coming towards him, “What did she say?” 

He just shakes his head. Clarke barely said anything, but even if she had, he wouldn’t be telling O. It’s really and truly, none of her fucking business. What she did though, she has to know that those kinds of lies, even if they are well-intentioned, are not acceptable. “What you did to her was shitty.” 

“I couldn’t figure out another way to get you two in the same place,” Octavia tells him and even though there’s an annoyance in her tone, he can tell from the way she shifts back and forth, not quite meeting his eye, that she knows it was wrong. 

“It doesn’t make it okay,” he says solemnly, looking first at Octavia and then to the other three still sitting on the ground. 

“We just wanted to help. To fix it.” 

Looking at the group in front of him, Bellamy is forcefully reminded of how each of them grew close to Clarke. He lets out a sigh, “It’s okay for her to mean something to you all even if she doesn’t to me.” 

“It’s not the same,” Harper tells him with sad eyes and Bellamy feels even shittier. He thought he was doing okay, making sure that they still get to see her if they wanted. The guilt hits him harder. 

“No...” he says slowly, trying to figure out what to say, Clarke’s hushed apology echoing in his mind. “I know that and I’m sorry. It's not the way that we wanted it to turn out, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is where we are and that isn’t going—" 

“The clinic was broken into again,” Octavia interrupts him. 

“What?” Bellamy asks instantly, turning back to face her, “When? What happened? Was anyone hurt?” 

Octavia smirks at him instead of answering and Bellamy feels a flash of irritation towards her.“What were you saying about not caring again?” 

“Having a general concern for her physical safety and caring about her in the way that you are implying are two very different things,” he tells her, barely resisting the urge to rub his and across his eyes. Octavia starts to shake her head in rejection so he continues before she can speak, desperate to get his point across. “I’d be just as concerned if it was someone else.” 

“No, you wouldn’t.” She says it with such resolve that Bellamy almost steps back in horror, wondering what kind of monster Octavia thinks he is. 

“Okay, you’d care,” she relents after a moment, seeing his expression, “but you wouldn’t do anything about it, wouldn’t even be tempted to. Mostly, you’d be worried about how the crime could affect us.” He opens his mouth to object, but she continues before he can get the chance. “It’s not a bad thing, Bell. You don’t care about saving everyone, but the ones you do care about, you’ll do anything for and whether you like to admit it or not, Clarke is still on that list.” 

Letting out a groan, Bellamy gives in to the temptation to rub his hand across his face. She’s right. He knows that she’s right, but that doesn’t change anything. The fact that he can’t stop caring is a fucking problem, not some sign that Octavia is right for meddling. 

“Was there even actually a break-in?” he asks, bypassing her observation entirely. 

The glee in Octavia’s eye dims at his question. “Yeah it was bad— no, she’s fine, but whoever did it, decided that what happened last time was not enough.” 

“Shit,” he curses and then immediately regrets it when he sees matching knowing looks from all of them. “What? That's bad. Trust me, it was much more than enough last time. When did it happen?” 

“Last Saturday, she had just left when she got the alert that the place had intruders.” 

Bellamy sighs in relief, glad that she had already gone. It means that whoever did it, didn’t want her hurt. He sighs again. This time though, it’s in regret. Last Saturday was the night that he barged into her apartment demanding answers. God, he’s such a fucking asshole. No wonder she was twitchy. Of course, she didn't feel like talking. 

“Are you going to go check up on her?” 

“No,” he says quickly, instinctively. 

“Okay,” Octavia says, rolling her eyes, “are you going to check up on the clinic?” 

“No,” he repeats more sternly. “I’m not going to, O.” 

Still, he hesitates a few steps from the door. He wants to go, to make sure everything is okay just so he can know. Just so he can get the buzzing 'what if' out of his head. Octavia is wrong about a lot of things, but she’s right that he still worries. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to help it. He has to though; he needs to move on from this. 

Pushing the concern away, Bellamy forces himself to remember the way that Clarke held that gun, the way that she expertly conversed with Cage, matching him step for step. She is fine. She knows how to handle herself. It's not his responsibility. He walks away from the door with another glance, hoping that if he repeats the mantra to himself enough times, he’ll actually start to believe it.

*****

As expected, he doesn’t sleep that night, nor the next. Although, the images that haunt his mind now are the same ones from nearly two months ago instead. Clarke in the clinic, late at night, all alone. A group of masked figures surrounding her with muffled threats. The only change is that now, she fights back.

She spits in one of their faces instead of cowering in the corner. Then, when they move in to attack her, slap her across the face for her blatant disrespect, she gets the upper hand, moving to disarm the nearest threat. For a second, it seems like maybe she will be alright. With the gun in her hand, she should be able to make her escape. Except, she doesn’t because she’s Clarke and she’s never been good at backing down. 

The group descends on her; all five of them abandon their efforts to trash the space and instead, focus their destructive nature on her. She fights back with all her strength but it’s no use. For a long time, she doesn’t make a noise, refusing to allow them the satisfaction of hearing her pain, but eventually, it becomes too much. She lets out a whimper and then a scream. 

Bellamy wakes with a start; his heart hammering in his chest and the sheets beneath him drenched in sweat. He runs his hand through his damp hair, pushing his palms into his eyes to try and banish the nightmare. When that doesn’t work, he directs his attention out the window, blinds open since he never intended to fall asleep. The sun is still out, although only barely, creating a haze glow around him. A glow that instantly reminds him of the dream. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks, getting off the bed and then tugging on a new shirt. He could only have been asleep for an hour; tiredness still lingers in his bones, but above that, right on the surface of his skin, is a buzzing that he knows will remain long after his heart rate returns to normal. Standing in the middle of his room, he feels an almost overwhelming urge to go to the clinic, if only just to watch and make sure that his nightmare doesn’t come to pass. 

Walking out into the living room, he does his best to squish the desire out as he has done every time it’s come up, and it works. At least for the most part. He calls out to Octavia, hoping that she will prove a helpful distraction and is met with silence. Before the already churning panic can take hold, however, he spots a posted note with her handwriting stuck to the wall. 

_We went to grab some dinner. I’ll be home by 10. Didn't want to wake you._

He continues into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He takes a sip. The cool water sliding down his throat provides momentary relief, but then looks around the empty space and the anxiety, the unknown, it all finally becomes too much. With no one around to stop him, no knowing looks or pleased grins to remind him why he shouldn’t do this, he grabs his keys off the table and is out the door without another thought. 

It’s just passed seven, she’ll probably still be there and even if she’s not, well, at least he’ll be able to check on the clinic. Really, that’s all he needs. A quick drive-by to make sure everything is okay and then he will be on his way, back to bed, and hopefully, a peaceful night's rest. 

The drive to the clinic is still just as easy as it’s always been. He makes the trip quickly, choosing to detour along the street parallel to her building to catch a glimpse of her car likely parked in the back without risking being seen. It's ridiculous and absurd, he knows that even as he does it, but he’s come this far and there’s no turning back now. 

As expected, her simple black car is parked in its usual place and he is once again hit with indecision. He turns the corner, driving around to the front, thankful for the lack of traffic. Here, he can easily see the damage that Octavia was talking about. The front windows are all boarded up, the faint markings of graffiti still staining the outer wall, but there’s no obvious new damage. Letting out a sigh of relief, Bellamy weighs his options. He could continue home, he accomplished what he set out to do, she’s okay. 

For now. 

The 'for now' rings in his head, prompting him to turn right again at the next interaction. 

He continues turning, looping around the building until he’s found the perfect place to park. Decision made, Bellamy settles into his seat, feeling calm for the first time in weeks. Here, he can just wait until she’s left, and then he’ll leave too, confident that nothing bad has happened. 

For the first time in a long time, he lets himself think about her without regret or anger. It's probably a mistake, but he’s come this far and he’s not sure he could force them away now if he tried. He’s tired, so incredibly tired, and underneath that all, he just misses her. He waits until her car has left the parking lot over an hour later without incident and then turns on his own car and drives home. Within 15 minutes of being home, he’s back in his bed and asleep.

*****

The next night he goes back. And the next. It becomes part of his nightly routine. He doesn’t see Lincoln on any of his trips, which is honestly a relief. The hesitation in the man’s speech when Bellamy asked if his role was to protect Clarke haunts him as much as anything else. While his frantic call to him all those weeks ago makes it seem like he genuinely cares, Bellamy isn’t sure he can trust that. However, staying when he knows she already has some additional form of protection would just make him feel even more ridiculous.

For nearly a week, he continues his routine until his truck door opens unexpectedly one night, jarring him out of his lethargic watch. He scrambles for the gun tucked into the side of his door, but before he’s even got his hand around it, the familiar scent of her shampoo hits him and he lets the weapon fall back into its place. “What are you doing here, Clarke?” 

Instead of answering, she makes herself comfortable on the passenger side of his truck. “That was supposed to be my line.” 

There’s forced cheerfulness to her voice which instantly sets him on edge. It’s better than the cold indifference, but not by much. It’s still an act. It’s all a fucking act. “What are you doing here, Clarke?” 

“Go home, Bellamy.” 

He scoffs. Of course, that’s it. She doesn’t want him here. He’s probably been messing with her lifestyle. It’s hard to do business when you’re being watched every night. He wonders if she was dealing out of the clinic before pushing the thought away. He doesn’t care. “Guess I should have figured that you wouldn’t want me here.” 

“I don’t want you here like _this_ ,” she clarifies, sounding more familiar. There’s an edge to her tone, but it’s one that he recognizes. That, coupled with the implication that she wants him here in some other way is enough to make him lose control of his emotions. 

“Really, what did you think was going to happen?” He turns to look at her fully for the first time, asking the question that he actually wants her to answer. Since she came to him this time, maybe that means she’s finally going to fucking say something. 

“I don’t know,” she responds, following his subject change with ease. She doesn’t shout, but in the dim quiet of the car, it sure feels like it. There are a few beats of silence, filled only with the sounds of their rapid breathing, and then she continues. “You made me smile.” 

_He made her smile._ What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? He tries to catch her eye, but she avoids him, staring straight out the front window. 

“You made me laugh and then you gave me a family.” 

“I didn’t—” he starts and then cuts off, running his hand through his hair. It still doesn’t make sense to him. Even months later, almost an entire year later, not even with everything else that has come out; why him? “You have a family.” 

For the first time since she got in the car, an edge of coolness starts to take hold of her features, and then just as suddenly, it falls away. She lets out a tired sigh. “Not a good one; it was never great, never anything close to what you’ve got, but in the beginning, it was okay. There was enough good to outweigh the bad. Or maybe I was just naïve enough that I didn’t see the bad, but whatever good parts there were, they all died a long time ago.” 

He thinks about the little he knows about her father, but more importantly what he doesn’t know. How she didn’t talk about him, how often, it felt like she couldn’t bare talk about him. _He was my favorite person and then he was gone._

“I was always going to find out,” he says because even if she had her reasons for deciding he was worth something, it doesn’t change the fact that she lied. If he really meant what she’s trying to claim that he did, she would have known that she could tell him and he’d stick with her regardless. 

“I know,” she says softly, and he’s horrified to see a tear leak out of the corner of her eye. “I honestly wasn’t hiding it at the start, at least not consciously.” 

He rolls his eyes in disbelief, but it’s half-assed at best. His heart just isn’t in it. He just doesn’t have the energy, not to argue over something that has already happened. Especially not now, when he has the distance and the perspective to realize that him not knowing is on him as well. 

When he doesn’t say anything, she continues, like it’s suddenly incredibly important to her that he understands. “I didn’t even realize that you didn’t, not that first night and then after, I just kept thinking that it would click for you and if it didn’t, someone would say something. God, I thought for sure someone would say something. Octavia or Raven, Murphy and then there was Miller and I thought for sure he’d say something.” 

“Yes, thank you,” he remarks with a sarcastic edge, “it’s very clear that I was the only person who was stupid enough not to see it. You don’t need to tell me how delusional I was.” 

“You’re not delusional, Bellamy,” she says, turning to face him, a familiar determination written all over her face. “You just like to see the best in people… not— I know you aren’t singing humanity’s praises, you know the world is a mess, but when it comes to the people close to you, Octavia or Murphy... or me, you see the good.”

“I don’t...” 

“You do! You saw some kind of brightness in me, a light that I didn’t think even existed anymore and it was exhilarating. It was addicting and I didn’t want to lose it. I wanted to be the person you saw me as and for a while, I believed that I could be.” 

He doesn’t need to ask what changed. The answer is easy enough to see in retrospect. From the moment Wells died, something changed. Back then, he wrote it off as grief, but she started to pull away, to put distance between them. Still, it wasn’t until months later that everything fell apart. 

If only she had just fucking talked to him. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, exhausted. 

“I’m not blaming you,” she says softly, “I know I complained a lot about how you saw me, especially in the end, but that was mostly guilt. I knew I needed to come clean and end it, but I couldn’t make myself do it and then every time you’d say something like that, it would be a sharp reminder of all the secrets I was keeping.” 

“I know,” he responds after a moment, eyes still closed. It’s all just so fucking laughable now, how everything went down, how it seems like they were living through the same torment without the other knowing. “Trust me, I know. There’s no way you could blame me when you did almost the exact same thing. You saw that I was occasionally a half-decent person and suddenly, I was worth it. It didn’t matter that my life is a disaster and I’m so far from good enough for you.” 

“That’s not...” she starts with a sigh. “It doesn’t work both ways, it’s not on you Bellamy. Either we are both adults who made choices, shitty choices, great choices, whatever, but ones that we own or I am the monster who manipulated you. You can’t have been this bad influence that you seem to be determined to see yourself as if I was already corrupted.” 

“You were out!” he says, remembering Cage’s words, the shocking lack of recent news on her when he was searching. He twists to look at her and their eyes lock for the first time. “You were free, making a life for yourself outside of your family, and then within six months of knowing me all of that goes to hell.” 

“Me being at that warehouse had absolutely nothing to do with our relationship, you know that—” 

“The fact that you had Raven and Monty and fucking Octavia there suggests otherwise!” Even though he knows, he _knows_ , that Octavia didn’t give her much of a choice in the matter, the fact that she could put them in that position knowing how much it would hurt him, still hurts. There's no amount of rational or understanding that’s ever going to change that. 

“I’m sorry," she tells him, all the anger gone, "I know that’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. I understand why you hate me. I honestly don’t think I’d react half as well if our places were reversed—” 

“I don’t hate you,” he tells her softly, shocked that anyone would classify his reaction as good. He’s been a mess. 

“I mean, you’re here, sitting out here night after night like some medieval kn— wait, what?” 

He almost smiles at the surprise in her tone, but then he remembers what they are actually talking about and that stifles the urge quickly. It doesn’t take away his need to end this tension that’s been building between them though. 

“I was so angry Clarke, so fucking angry for so long. It was easier to be angry, to tell myself that it didn’t matter because what we had was screwed from the beginning.” 

“But,” she prompts hesitantly after a moment 

“But I’m tired of being angry all the time. I’m tired of avoiding you and making everyone around me miserable.” 

He’s barely finished before she’s shaking her head, ready to take the blame onto herself. “It’s not on you, Bellamy; it was me who screwed up.” 

He actually does smile this time, not a full smile, not even close to that, but it’s more than he’s had in a long time. They are so different, him and Clarke, their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, and yet for all their differences, there are some very obvious similarities.

“What?” she asks with a hint of the old fond amusement. 

“Nothing,” he responds, shaking his head and then tilting his face away so she won’t be able to see the fondness. 

They sit there for a while in silence and it’s easy in a way that he wasn’t sure was ever going to be possible again. The radio in the background, Clarke’s rhythmic breathing beside him. 

“Where do we go from here?” 

He just shrugs, honestly not sure how they are supposed to keep moving forward, but for once the uncertainty doesn’t feel like a problem. Somehow, they will figure things out, for Octavia and the kids who miss them being whatever mismatched family they were. For themselves.


	11. I need somebody and always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a long time, this chapter was affectionally called 'Murphy cares' and for that reason, this chapter will always be special to me. If any of you have read some of my other works, you'll know just how much I love him. 
> 
> I hope you like it!

Nearly a week later and Bellamy finds himself in the exact same spot outside her clinic, the same space that he’s occupied every night since. Before she’d left last time, she’d asked him if he was going to keep coming. With one hand on the door handle and her hair swept over her shoulder, she looked much lighter than when she got into the vehicle as though being with him, even if it was awkward, even if they were fighting more than talking, filled a hole inside her. 

The way she made the inquiry, with absolutely no expectation, reminded him of all the reasons why he’d initially wanted to be there and after that, it was easy for him to tell her that he’d be back. While he hasn’t seen her again, he’s kept his word. Every night around seven o’clock, he gets in his truck and parks himself here until she leaves. 

Octavia hasn’t questioned him about it, so he’s not sure if she knows where he’s spending his evenings. Even if she were to say something now though, he’s not sure he’d feel compelled to stop. He realized after Clarke left that night that he isn’t doing this for her, or at least not just for her. Being here makes him feel better; he feels more at peace now than he has in a long time. Evidently, just being around her also settles him. 

He is pulled out of that calm, almost meditative state, however, by a series of loud taps on the side of his truck. For a minute, he is concerned, but then he looks in his mirror and sees Lincoln’s clearly recognizable figure watching him. 

“Clarke told me to come and say hi,” Lincoln says once he’s rolled down the window. “Apparently, having a half conversation, half argument at three in the morning doesn’t give off the kind of impression I should be making.” 

“No, it wasn’t my finest moment either,” Bellamy agrees after a beat, stepping out of the truck so he can stand beside the man. With the light from the setting sun still persisting, he appears even more imposing than last time. _Really, what the hell was he thinking, picking a fight with him?_

Lincoln shrugs, offering him a compassionate smile, “Maybe not. You were having a rough night though.” 

Bellamy scoffs, that’s one way to put it. “I was an asshole.” 

Laughing, Lincoln leans back against the building opposite from where Bellamy stands in front of the truck. “Yeah, but I didn’t think that was all that unusual. According to Clarke, grumpy, and unapproachable is your default setting for most interactions.” 

Bellamy runs his hand through his hair, embarrassed, but also strangely at ease. Without the fear and the adrenalin, he seems like an alright guy. He's remarkably easy to talk to at least. Bellamy could see himself standing here and talking to him until Clarke is ready to go for the night. If Lincoln is here, though, he realizes slowly, he really doesn’t need to be. 

The unease settles back in his stomach. He looks the man up and down, still unsure if he really trusts Lincoln to protect her. Clarke seems to think so though, so he probably should. With one last appraising look, Bellamy lets out what he hopes is an inaudible sigh. “I guess I can go if you are here now…” 

“Oh no, I’m not here officially, I just came to get my monthly check-up,” he hesitates for a second and then adds on, “and my Methadone prescription.” 

Bellamy looks up at him in surprise, not that he really should be. “You’re an addict.” 

“Yes,” Lincoln responds easily, but he turns to Bellamy, leveling him with a look that doesn’t seem nearly as relaxed. 

“No judgment,” Bellamy says quickly, meeting the man’s eyes. Drugs have never been a temptation for him, not with the way he grew up. It's hard to see them as anything other than destructive after watching what they did to his Mom, but he knows that’s not everyone’s reality. Besides, he mentioned Methadone. He wouldn’t be getting that if he wasn’t sober. 

“Just ask what you want to, Bellamy,” Lincoln says and to Bellamy’s relief, he seems more amused than annoyed. 

Still, it’s not any of his business, “You don’t have to tell me anything.” 

“No, I don’t, but I think you need to hear it. You and Clarke are whatever you are right now, but it matters to her that you trust me, and right now, you don’t.” 

“It isn’t—” Bellamy starts to say, but Lincoln talks over him. 

“You don’t want to leave her with me for protection,” Lincoln says with a knowing glimmer in his eyes. 

For a second Bellamy is tempted to argue the point, but in the end, it doesn’t make sense. He _doesn’t_ trust him to watch out for Clarke, at least not with the dedication he should. “Can you blame me?” 

“No,” Lincoln says, “but you are wrong. The only way you’ll see that though, is if you ask your questions, so ask them.” 

“How long have you known Clarke and how did you get this assignment?” Bellamy asks without any more hesitation. If Lincoln wants to give him the reassurance he seeks, he’s not going to stop him. 

“The first answer is easy, the second is longer, but I presume you have time. You’re going to wait until she’s done?” 

Bellamy nods his head and that’s enough for Lincoln to continue. “I started messing with drugs young. There was really no one around growing up and when it’s like that, it’s easy to fall into it before you even really know what it is. By the time I was 14, I was addicted, by the time I hit 16, I was at rock bottom. It was either die in some ditch where no one would find me for days because no one would be looking or pull my life together, clean up, and get sober. I chose the latter.” 

“Must have been hard,” Bellamy says, thinking about all the fully grown adults who haven’t been able to manage such a task. 

“It was,” Lincoln responds, and Bellamy can see the truth of the struggle written across his face, “but I did it. Somehow. Looking back, it feels like a dream; all I remember is knowing that I didn’t want that to be my end. It took almost a year, but by the end of it, I was free of the hold the drugs had over me. Just because I was free though, doesn’t mean that the people who mattered to me were.” 

Despite himself, Bellamy can already see where this is going, and it doesn’t paint a pretty picture. “Fuck.” 

Lincoln grimaces, the hard look seeming foreign on his face, but continues after a moment. “I had a friend, really more like a brother, and he hadn’t managed to shake the needles when I did. He had racked up quite the debt with Kane and they were done being lenient, so I offered my services in exchange for his debt being forgiven.” 

“And you were assigned to Clarke?” 

“No, I was just a low-level dealer. The fact that I ended up with Clarke was actually a total coincidence,” he smiles for the first time, although there’s still something painful to it. “I was working a party, one that she and Wells happened to be at, and things went sideways. Someone came in angry, looking for a fight with them for something one of their parents undoubtedly did. A gun was pulled and well, I managed to get them out of there before anyone other than the instigator was injured.” 

The details sounded familiar as Lincoln explained, but it’s not until he gets to the end that it finally clicks. The exposé article that he’d read during his late-night information binge. He shakes his head at how wrong his and their assumptions were before forcing himself to focus on the present. “And that’s how you two ended up together.” 

“Yeah. I was someone they trusted to keep their head, and I was close enough in age that I could blend in without too much trouble whenever she wanted to mingle with her peers. It wasn’t very often, not until her Dad died and she left for college a year early. I followed her then.” 

“To protect her?” 

“To watch over her,” Lincoln corrects with a tight smile. “She wasn’t even supposed to know that I was there. I didn’t think she did for a long time, but it turns out, she always knew. I was with her when she was away for school and then when she came back home, so did I.” 

He takes a breath and then continues. “I was free from my debt— my friend’s debt and for a few years, it was good… then he overdosed. I didn’t even know that he was using again, I had lost contact with him while away and well, that was the push I needed to fall back into the darkness. I stayed there until I was back at that place, where there was no further down to go, except this time I couldn’t get out of there by myself.” 

Lincoln pauses, looking out at the setting sun and Bellamy can see the toll reliving the past has taken on him. At first glance, he’s big and strong; the epitome of an imposing. Looking a little closer though, it’s easy to see the calm and compassion that radiates underneath. It would be easy to believe that the serenity was inherent, but now, Bellamy knows better; it’s practiced. He’s lived and learned more than most people do in twice as much time. 

“Suddenly, I was halfway across the country where Clarke had gone to complete her residency,” Lincoln continues still watching the sun. “I don’t really remember much of it, but she found me, or maybe I found her. She reminded me of my will to survive all those years ago and helped me get back to that place. She was relentless, refusing to let me go, which was exactly what I needed.” 

A half-smile finds its way onto Bellamy’s face; that sounds just like Clarke to him. Lincoln looks back at him with a matching look on his face. “We don’t interact all that much, just the monthly check-in she insists on and the occasional wave when we pass each other. It's safer that way, but that doesn’t make her any less important to me. In a lot of ways, she’s like a little sister to me. So, while I may not be told to protect her like you are thinking, I do it. You can trust that when I’m around nothing bad will happen to her.” 

“If she’s so important to you, why aren’t you more worried?” Bellamy asks, wanting to believe what he’s being told, but stuck on that very important detail. 

“About you?” 

Bellamy tilts his head in confusion. No not him; _why would he be worried about him?_ Clarke has absolutely nothing to worry about from him “About the break-ins.” 

“At the clinic?” 

“Yes,” Bellamy responds slowly, narrowing his eyes. There better not have been any other break-ins. 

Lincoln waves his hand dismissively, “Those aren’t anything to be concerned about.” 

“You’re fucking with me, right?” Bellamy asks, taking a step back, suddenly not so fond of the man in front of him. 

“It’s her parents ordering them,” Lincoln reveals after a moment of hesitation, “I don’t know who, but they are definitely coming from the top of the organization. Add that to the fact that I was told not to concern myself with them and it basically confirms it was one of them.” 

“What the fuck?” Bellamy asks outraged. He’s seen shitty parenting, observed it firsthand, but this takes it to a whole other level. The scene he walked into last time was no joke and apparently, the latest attack was even worse. Lincoln just shrugs, but Bellamy isn’t going to take that as an answer after that revelation. “No seriously, what the fuck?” 

“It’s complicated,” Lincoln says eventually, sounding reluctant. 

“It’s really not,” Bellamy mutters, “did you see the place last time? This time? It was trashed. She could have been hurt; it doesn’t matter how carefully the people who did it were instructed to be. It could have gone to shit so quickly.”

Pacing back and forth across the cracked sidewalk, Bellamy tries to make sense of the situation, but it makes no sense. How could they put someone they claim to care about at risk like that? He looks at Lincoln again, begging him to explain. 

“I don’t have any good explanations for you,” he tells Bellamy solemnly, “but even if I did, they aren’t my explanations to give.” 

Bellamy thinks about all the times he dismissed her complaints about her Mom, mentally if not verbally, and feels sick. He thought it was all trivial, even after he learned the truth. He thought she had been living some kind of charmed life before she decided to slum it with him. “Why didn’t she ever say something?” 

For a second, he doesn’t think Lincoln is going to answer him, and really, it’s not like he needs one. It makes sense in some fucked up way. There was no way she could have realistically conveyed her parent’s terribleness without clueing him in. Still, he feels the familiar tugging of regret. A feeling that only gets stronger once Lincoln starts talking. 

“Because for some screwed up reason, she’s decided that it’s better for you to hate her. That having you want nothing to do with her is her punishment for what happened.” 

“That’s just—” Bellamy cuts himself off not exactly sure what he was even going to say. Part of him wants to dismiss it right away. She has to know that cutting herself off from him hurt more than just her and he doesn’t believe for a second that she’s careless even if she seemed that way for a while. Underneath the denial though, is the reality that he’d have a similar reaction if their places were reversed. 

He looks towards the clinic, fighting off the urge to go in there and talk to her. It’s a battle that he continues to wage within himself every day because even if he might understand now, might even forgive her for what happened, he hasn’t forgotten. He doesn’t trust her anymore and that’s something they will need if they are ever to get back to some form of normal. 

“You’ll figure it out. Both of you,” Lincoln tells him softly, offering him a slight hesitant pat on the arm before walking away. His footsteps fade into the distance, but Bellamy just stays there watching the building he used to know so well, and wishing he had that same level of confidence.

*****

He leaves Lincoln that day with troubling thoughts in his head and they don’t go away no matter how hard he tries. While he always knew that there was shady stuff in her past, even when he didn’t want to acknowledge it, he thought that it came from outside sources. The idea that she was fighting off threats from within her own home haunts him. It changes things. Again.

There’s something about this all that doesn’t feel right. He’d figured out almost right after everything fell apart that Wells' death was the trigger that sparked it all. From there, he had assumed that she was at that warehouse that night looking for information pinning the deed on Cage, but that doesn’t make sense. She already had dirt on him; she wouldn’t have needed more leverage to make him talk. 

Now, he finds himself questioning things that he brushed over in anger months ago. Why was she in that warehouse? What was she looking for and maybe more importantly, did she find it? He could go ask her; he feels confident enough in their dynamic now that he could just walk into the clinic one night and she’d tell him if he asked, but still, he doesn’t. 

Instead, he asks Octavia. 

With a warm mug of hot chocolate in his hand, a sure way to put Octavia in a good mood, Bellamy opens the door to her bedroom the next day, hoping that she will have the answers he’s looking for. And that she’ll give them to him. 

Grimacing, he knows that’s not likely, but he pushes ahead anyway. “Hey, can you take a break?” 

She spots the drink in his hand and narrows her eyes, “What do you want?” 

“Can’t I just bring you something nice because I’m happy that you are studying?” 

“No,” she responds sternly even as she takes the chocolaty offering without complaint, “What do you want?” 

With one final moment of hesitation, Bellamy settles himself on the edge of her bed. “What were you doing at the warehouse that night?” 

Octavia’s eyes go wide in surprise and then turn cold. She stands up from the bed, walks to her desk, and then puts her books down with too much force. “Nope, no. We are not going back there again, not now that I can finally mention Clarke’s name without you looking like you want to punch someone. I went because I wanted to. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you it is not on Clarke—” 

“No,” Bellamy says, cutting off her rant, “Not why were _you_ there, why were you there?” 

“What?” Octavia asks, confused. 

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair, desperately wishing that he could have figured out this by himself. Especially since he knows getting Octavia more involved in his relationship with Clarke is just asking for problems. Once again, he reminds himself that Clarke was the other option and then suddenly, Octavia’s potential prodding doesn’t seem so bad. “Why was Clarke there that night?” 

He expects to see the confusion dissipate and smugness to take hold of her features, but instead, she just looks wary. “Why now?” 

“Because I just realized that I don’t know,” Bellamy snaps, embarrassed that he let his emotions cloud his judgment for so long. But that isn’t Octavia’s fault, he reminds himself, before continuing more calmly, “With everything that happened, I didn’t think to care and that was a mistake.” 

She looks at him carefully, studying him with her arms crossed in front of her like she’s trying to decide if he’s worthy. He waits with bated breath until finally, her arms fall back to her sides and she moves back towards the bed. “I don’t know.” 

“Come on O, stop with the bullshit.” For a second, he thought maybe it would actually be that simple, but of course Octavia never likes to make things easy.

“I don’t know,” she repeats and when he looks at her there’s just the right level of petulance to her expression that tells him she’s telling the truth. 

“Really?” he asks in surprise, not because he doesn’t believe her, but because the idea that she would rest without knowing the answer seems unfathomable to him. Octavia doesn’t ask for information, she tends to demand it and even he often struggles to say no. 

“Yes,” she responds in annoyance, “I asked and she wouldn’t tell me then I asked again and she refused to say anything.” 

“Wow,” Bellamy says, rather impressed. 

“No not wow because now it means I don’t have any information to give to you, dumbass.” She laughs suddenly, moving to sit beside him, “Actually, this is great. You should be punished since it’s your own damn fault I don’t know.” 

“How can it be my fault?” 

She looks at him like he’s an idiot which isn’t shocking. Sometimes, it feels like she thinks everything is his fault. “She wouldn’t talk to me because she didn’t want to upset you. After your reaction at the warehouse, I wasn’t sure she was ever going to talk to me again.” 

“That reaction was perfectly valid,” he reminds her even as his mind wanders back to that night and Clarke’s decision to bring Octavia along; a decision that she clearly regretted mere hours later. Clarke’s not careless, he knows that, especially not with Octavia, so why would she risk bringing the younger girl? Was she just so blinded by the thought of answers that she didn’t think or was she thinking and there was an explanation that he never stopped to hear? 

It’s another set of questions for him to add to his ever-growing list. Ones that it seems only Clarke will be able to help him answer. 

“Ugh maybe,” Octavia groans into her mug, “but either way, it cost you the answers you want.” 

It cost him a whole lot more than that Bellamy thinks, watching Octavia sip her drink happily, so much more.

*****

Strumming his fingers against the steering wheel, Bellamy stares at the front of the clinic while the sun sets behind him, debating whether he should go in. It’s a war he’s fought within himself for the last two nights. Actually, it’s been weeks, if not months since the debate started, but still, no side seems to be winning.

Some days, he nearly convinces himself to just walk in, one hand on the door ready to open it. Other days, he questions what it is he’s even doing there night after night. Sometimes, he thinks he should just walk away for good; other times he knows that leaving is never going to actually be an option. 

The only matter he seems settled on is that going in there now can’t mean nothing. At least he’s past that delusion. Letting his head fall against the steering wheel, Bellamy curses to himself. _What the hell is he doing?_

A loud tap on his window knocks Bellamy out of his thoughts and for one hopeful second, he thinks that maybe Clarke will have come to him again, taking the choice out of his hands. When he looks over and sees Murphy smirking at him, he can’t help but be disappointed. That disappointment quickly turns to concern and then annoyance, however, when Murphy bangs again despite already having his attention. 

He watches as Murphy’s mouth moves, but no discernible sound reaches him and concern starts to outweigh his annoyance. Murphy is all short quips and pointed insults. He doesn’t talk. 

Bellamy opens his door and steps out of the truck. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing is wrong,” Murphy responds, looking at him like he’s insane. “You look like shit.” 

Ignoring the insult, Bellamy asks again, “What happened?” 

“Nothing fucking happened. Do you need a doctor? Fortunately, there’s one right across the street. She’s decent from what I hear, easy on the eyes too.” 

“Murphy,” Bellamy growls in warning, “What are you doing here?” 

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn coat, Murphy suddenly looks annoyed like he wasn’t the one who showed up here to talk to him. “You should take the night off.” 

“What?” Bellamy asks sharply in surprise, “From what? 

Murphy makes a vague hand gesture, “From whatever chivalrous pining bullshit you’ve got going on here because, again, you look like shit.” 

“Fuck off,” Bellamy tells him even as he runs his hand through his hair trying to smooth it. The truth is he probably does look like a mess and Octavia was just too wrapped up in her own world to call him on it. Almost every hour it seems like he’s got a new question he never thought to ask and they are all slowly driving him insane. Still, he’s not going to just leave her. “I’m here for a reason.” 

“Yes, to protect the princess. Got it. I’ll make sure no dragons come to carry her away,” Murphy responds sarcastically. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes at the sarcasm, intending to tell him where to go, but then his words register. “You’re going to stay?” 

“Well yeah, can’t leave the princess unguarded.” 

“You’re going to spend the next two hours sitting here, watching the clinic?” Bellamy asks, narrowing his eyes. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Murphy curses, pacing across the sidewalk, “Aren’t you supposed to be smarter than this? Why the hell are you the leader again? YES.” 

“You don’t have anything better to do?” 

“Would you like me to leave? Because I will. Leave your sorry ass to spend another night—” 

“No!” Bellamy says hastily, trying to hide his smile. He knew that Clarke made an impact on everyone, but seeing it in action is another thing altogether. Logically, he knows that Murphy cares about all of them, it’s just rare to see this blatantly. “By all means.” 

Turning to mess with the windshield wipers, Bellamy lets a little grin surface while he watches Murphy lean against the building with his arms crossed. Out of all their friends, Murphy wasn’t the one he would have counted on showing up, especially not first, but maybe he should have. He’s not even sure if anyone else knows what he’s been up to. Most people aren’t as naturally observant as Murphy. 

“Are you going to go?” Murphy snaps at him after a moment. 

Suddenly, Bellamy feels a pit of lead land in his stomach, realizing that this means that he’s actually going to have to leave, but he pushes that aside quickly. Murphy is doing a nice thing here, he’s not going to prevent that no matter how much he might want to. “Yeah, I’m going.” 

Still, he can’t seem to make himself actually leave. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Murphy to stay and do what he says, Bellamy knows that he will, and yet he still can’t convince himself to get in the truck and leave. God, he’s a mess. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re actually here because you want to be, aren’t you?” 

“It’s not safe…” Bellamy starts to say and then trails off. That’s maybe why he showed up the first night, but it’s not why he has continued to come back. At least, not entirely why. 

Instead of saying anything, Murphy just stares at him for a long moment while Bellamy fights off the urge to shift uncomfortably. When he finally opens his mouth it’s almost a relief. At least until he starts to talk. “You need to get a fucking grip.” 

Instantly, Bellamy feels his defenses rise, “Hey! Watch yourself.” 

“No, you watch yourself,” Murphy says, taking a step closer to Bellamy, “because honestly, it’s fucking pathetic.” 

“She—” 

“I know what she did; we all know what she did. It was fucked up and if you didn’t want anything more to do with her, that’s one thing. Hell, if she did to me what she did to you, I’d be done, but you aren’t done. You’re sitting outside her clinic night after night, so grow a set of balls and go in there! Start trying to fix it because what you’re doing now sure as shit isn’t helping anything.” 

“Are you finished?” Bellamy asks after a few minutes have passed. The question is supposed to come out stern yet indifferent, but instead, it ends up just sounding tired. _What is he doing here?_

Murphy glowers at him, looking more familiar than he has throughout the entire conversation, “I don’t know, are you done being an idiot?” 

Letting out a sigh, Bellamy falls back against the truck. He watches Murphy and Murphy stares back unflinchingly. He is an idiot. He knows that Octavia has most certainly told him a bunch of times, but it somehow rings differently coming from the man in front of him. 

While Octavia may want to help, her assistance comes from a biased perspective. Not only because she’s his sister and likes to meddle, but because she’s friends with Clarke; she looks up to her. He’s not naïve enough to have not realized that all of the younger ones liked him and Clarke together because it completed their nontraditional family in a traditional way. 

With Murphy though, he doesn’t think that’s an issue. He’s unbiased. Not to mention brazen. He’ll give Bellamy a painfully honest answer and he’s starting to think that he needs one. “This really is a mess, isn’t it?” 

“You’re actually fucking with me, right?” Murphy wonders out loud to which Bellamy just shrugs. “Yes, it’s a goddamn mess. You can’t walk away, but you also don’t want to move forward. You’re playing both sides right now and we both know that doing that never ends well.”

“So what do I—” 

“Don’t,” Murphy cuts him off sharply, eyes so wide in horror that in any other circumstance it’d be comical, “I am not some fucking relationship guru and more than that, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care.” 

Bellamy fights off the temptation to tell Murphy that the fact that he’s standing here, on a chilly April evening, with absolutely nothing personal to gain from his presence, is the definition of caring. He knows that it will only anger him and that’s the last thing he wants to do. Instead, he just nods his head in thanks, the closest he can get to acknowledging what Murphy did here without making either of them uncomfortable and then gets back into his truck. 

As the sun dips below the horizon behind him, Bellamy thinks about what Murphy said. The annoying thing is that he was right, he’s been sitting on the edge for too long, not making any clear decision and that needs to change. 

For a split second, he contemplates walking away and never looking back before dismissing it entirely. The truth is that if he was capable of doing that, he would have done it weeks if not months ago. He can’t leave, which means he needs to choose to stay in whatever form that may take. He needs to start moving forward.


	12. Stop this pain tonight

Before he’s even finished grabbing a cup of coffee the next morning, Octavia is already hovering behind him, eagerness radiating off her in palpable waves. Drink in hand, he turns to her warily. It's been nearly a decade since she was up this early voluntarily, not to mention looking happy about it. Taking a sip, he reminds himself that there is absolutely no way that she can know about his internal promise to make peace with Clarke, and therefore there’s no reason to worry; at least not about that. 

“What’s going on, O?” he finally asks when it’s clear that she’s not going to just explain her presence. Part of him is tempted to leave her bouncing in front of him indefinitely, but he’s slightly afraid she’ll explode in excitement. 

“Jasper has finally decided that we all get to meet the girlfriend.” 

“The girlfriend?” 

“Okay, fine, Maya,” Octavia relents, rolling her eyes and then continuing on as though he hadn’t phrased the term as a question, “but I really shouldn’t be reprimanded for not using her name when it’s been months. Jasper is the one who decided to make her a mystery.” 

Bellamy’s brow pulls together in confusion. _Girlfriend, mystery, months?_ Frantically, he tries to recall the last time he saw Jasper. It can’t have been that long. He remembers thinking that he looked good; his cheeks a little less gaunt, his eyes not shadowed in the way he’d become used to. At the very most, it’s been a few weeks; he’s nearly positive that he passed him in the living room on his way to watch over Clarke. 

It hasn’t been that long since he’s seen him maybe, but when was the last time they actually had a conversation? He thinks and quickly realizes that it’s been months since he's said more than a passing hello to him. After everything with Clarke, he shut down, stopped interacting with anyone who didn’t force the issue, which basically reduced his interactions down to Octavia at home and Miller at work. 

His stomach twists itself into knots the more he considers it. The hard truth is that he stopped paying attention long before everything with him and Clarke fell apart. As soon as Wells died, almost all his time and energy went into making sure Clarke was okay. Even if he wasn’t with her, he was worrying if she was okay. Before that too. She came into his life and consumed it. 

_How could he have missed so much and more importantly, what else doesn’t he know?_ For the first time in months, the questions raging around in his head have nothing to do with Clarke as disbelief turns into guilt and then that guilt doubles and triples inside of him. He cares about these people, all of them, how could he just forget about them? 

“Anyways, he says we can meet her, so I’m thinking we can make a thing of it? Not like a huge deal, but get everyone together tonight. It’s been a while since we were all here at the same time. Maybe find something to snack on that isn’t chip crumbs or week-old leftovers,” Octavia continues, rambling on unbothered before stopping suddenly. “Bell, are you okay?” 

Putting his mug down, Bellamy lets out one more internal curse and then forces himself to get his shit together. “Yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” she asks again, the excitement in her eyes morphing into wariness. 

“Yes,” he repeats with more assurance, giving her the answer she deserves to hear. If this had happened a month ago, or even a week ago, it might have just been enough to re-spark his anger at Clarke. After all, it would be easier to blame her for coming in and distracting him. Now though, he can recognize that he can’t change what was; all he can do is keep moving forward. 

It also reaffirms to him that he made the right decision the night before. He let Clarke take over his life and he’s continued to grant her that power even though he’s barely interacted with her in months. Not being around her didn’t make anything better; it didn’t help him _be_ better. Bellamy takes a deep breath. It’s time to make a change. “Have you talked to Clarke recently?” 

“Yes,” she responds slowly, narrowing her eyes like she’s not sure what trap he’s walking her into. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding his head, mostly to himself, and stealing his resolve. “If you want to mention tonight... see if she wants to come.” 

He expects her to grin, jump up in joy even, but instead, she just shakes her head at him, turning away. “Bell, if you want her to come, just tell her that you want her to come. I don’t know why this has to be so fucking complicated between the two of you.” 

“I don’t want her to come,” he tells her annoyed, maybe unjustly, but it’s the truth. The idea of Clarke here, in his space again for an extended period makes his skin itch. It’s time for him to get over himself though. “I might not want her here, but you do and Harper does.” He pauses, thinking about the night before. “Even Murphy seems to miss her. You all want her to come, so that should count for something regardless of how I feel.” 

For a second, he thinks Octavia is going to push the subject, but ultimately, she must decide that she’d rather have their group truly completed tonight more than she’d like to give him shit over his response. A move that he is thankful for. Right now, he just wants to focus on putting his family back together. Clarke can be a part of that— is a part of it, but that’s about as much importance as he can extend her right now. 

“Okay,” she says, resting her elbows on the counter opposite him, “let’s talk details.” 

They spend the next couple hours coming up with plans, cleaning up the place, and then creating a shopping list. It’s much more work than they usually put into these sorts of gatherings, but it’s fun. Plus, it takes his mind off the fact that he’ll be interacting with Clarke all night while also helping to ease the guilt relentlessly clinging to him. Which is why, even though he’s at the grocery store with his hands full and the Saturday crowds swarming around him, he still picks up his phone when it goes off. 

He’s going to do whatever he has to in order to make this evening fun for everyone, even if that means going on another of Octavia’s ridiculous errands. With a sigh, he puts his basket full of goodies on the ground and he pulls out his phone, only to stop short, blinking at the screen a few times to ensure that he’s seeing things correctly; Clarke's name. 

His heart hammers in his chest as he unlocks the device, opening the message chain with a sense of trepidation. A feeling which only increases when his eyes immediately land on the end of their last conversation. A casual comment from her, telling him that she’d be there around five, sent just hours before everything blew up in his face.

In the weeks right after everything fell apart, he found himself staring at this message often, wondering if she was already planning on going to the warehouse when she sent it. He spent days studying it, trying to make sense of the situation until eventually, he couldn’t bear the sight of it any longer. 

Looking at it now, he feels the same sense of unbalance, but in a totally different way. The questions are still there, but the anger isn’t strong enough to dull the hurt anymore. Even months later, it still seems insane how fast it all went to hell. 

Doubts start to creep into his mind, telling him that he should never have opened his mouth earlier. He pushes those feelings away though, and instead looks at the newest message; he’s supposed to be looking forward not back. He’s supposed to be letting go and moving on. 

_Is it okay if I bring Lincoln?_

_Of course,_ he types out and hits send before he has the chance to think about it. Closing his eyes, he gives himself exactly 20 seconds to absorb the fact that she is actually going to come tonight before, picking up his basket, and continuing through the store. Tonight is about Jasper and Maya, about all of them as a family. Not him and Clarke, and their drama. It’s all going to be fine. He’s determined to make it so.

*****

Almost everyone is there by the time he gets back, save for Clarke, and Jasper and Maya, the latter of which walk through the door holding hands only minutes after him. The timing turns out to be perfect, giving him the opportunity to get the food he got spread throughout the place while everyone else rushes towards the pair. Then by the time he’s done, the mob around them has calmed enough for him to make his way over without feeling like he’s interrupting.

Jasper turns his attention to him also almost the minute he’s within speaking distance, introducing Maya to him who greets him with her own sweet yet nervous smile. Bellamy returns the greeting easily, a strange mix of pride and nostalgia at war within him as he looks between them. Blatantly, he wonders if this is how parents feel when their kids grow up, only to quickly banish the thought. He’s not anyone’s parent, and thank god for that. The guilt hits him again; he’s not even been slightly successful at being whatever the hell lesser role he has lately.

_Well, he's not Jaspers’ parent,_ he corrects internally, eyes drifting to Octavia. She laughs at something Raven says across the room, seeming happier and brighter than she’s appeared in a while and some of his guilt abates. He’s undoubtedly fucked up with Jasper, but he thinks he’s mostly done okay with her. She flips her hair over her shoulder, a grin on her face, looking so much more grown up in reality than she does in his head, and he feels immensely grateful that she’s never really dated. 

He’s too young to feel so old. 

Letting out an internal sigh, Bellamy turns his attention back to the present and away from worries about the future. Really, he already has enough to worry about, but thankfully, he is quickly distracted by everyone else that he’s neglected over the last few months. He learns that Raven has actually gotten the piece of junk car she’s been fixing to run for more than a second at a time; Harper has taken up dance while Monty has gotten into the school he wanted with a full scholarship. 

He’s busy, bouncing from person to person with only a few seconds between each excited tale to occasionally look over at the still partly open door. It’s the best case scenario as far as he’s concerned. So effective that in the end, he’s not even watching when she walks through the door and is only alerted to her presence when Murphy snarks out, “Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.” 

His head snaps up, and for a second, the air is heavy. Clarke hesitates, frozen a half step into the apartment, looking unsure, but then she steps the rest of the way in, flipping Murphy off, and the entire room seems to let out a collective breath. 

“Everyone, this is Lincoln,” she says, gesturing to the man behind her. 

“Damn, you move fast,” Murphy says to Clarke before turning to him with a gleam in his eye, “Looks like you’ve got some competition, Blake.” 

“Shut up, Murphy,” both him and Clarke say at the same time. “And also, gross,” Clarke adds on over her shoulder to Murphy as she makes her way to Raven, “he’s like my brother.” 

Raven gets the first hug, but then there’s Octavia and Harper, Jasper, and then Octavia again. Everyone piles around her with grins on their faces and he knows that he made the right decision inviting her tonight. Still, he makes no move to join the excitement. Instead, settling for catching her eye and nodding his head in greeting while he takes a sip of his drink. 

He waits until she nods back before allowing his gaze to wander from the group. Almost instantly, he spots Lincoln standing awkwardly in the doorway alone, so he makes his way over. “I thought you two didn’t really hang out together?” 

Lincoln shrugs in response, but the growing smile on his face takes away any hint of annoyance from the movement. “Apparently, we aren’t following the rules anymore.” 

“Apparently?” Bellamy questions, handing Lincoln the can of pop he grabbed for him on the way over. “Shouldn't you know?” 

“I never know,” Lincoln responds with a huff of laughter, “Clarke decides what we should be doing and then I follow along. You must know how that is.” 

Bellamy looks over to the woman in question, chatting away with his sister and just shrugs. Clarke knows what she wants, sure, and she makes whatever that is clear, but for almost the entirety of their relationship, whether when they were friends, more than friends, or barely talking, she’s always left the final call up to him. He was the one who decided to keep going back to the clinic; it was him that made the first move physically too. Even now, she’s only here because he explicitly invited her. 

“I guess it’s different,” Lincoln says after a moment, and Bellamy doesn’t need to look to know there’s a twinkle in the man’s eye. 

“Maybe,” Bellamy breathes out quietly, not sure what to think.

*****

“They make a cute couple, don’t they?” Clarke asks, coming up beside him a few hours later. He turns to look at her sharply, not having expected her to talk to him, let alone be standing anywhere near as close as she is.

“Yeah,” he responds somewhat hesitantly. She shifts from foot to foot; he fiddles with the glass in his hand. 

“God, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here,” she finally breaks the silence, “Do I talk to you? Do I pretend that you aren’t there? Should I have said hi?” He blinks at her for a few seconds, not sure what answer to give, but apparently, silence was the wrong choice because she tenses up further. “I shouldn’t be over here. I’m just going to go.” 

“I didn’t know she existed until about eight hours ago,” Bellamy confesses in a rush. Clarke turns back to look at him quizzically, but he continues before she has the chance to say anything, “and no one has figured it out. Which was horrible enough before Jasper introduced her to me, looking at me like I’m supposed to give my approval like I’m his…” 

“Parent?” Clarke finishes off for him with a small grin that seems perfectly fitting while simultaneously the farthest thing from what he expected a few minutes before. “Yeah I got that too.” 

He feels a rush of relief pass through him, thankful beyond anything else, not to be alone in this bizarre situation. “And what did you say?” 

She shakes her head, “It was different, he came to me and asked for advice; it was sweet really, if not a little surprising,” she answers, clarifying when she sees the look of confusion on his face, “This was months and months ago… before everything.” 

“Oh, okay,” he says in surprise, slightly unnerved before adding on, “It would have been fine if it was after too, you know.” 

The look she sends tells him that she knows he’s not as okay with it as he’s trying to be, but she doesn’t verbally call him out on it; apparently, everyone is giving him a free pass today, and he’s not going to complain. “He told me about her a few times after that, and I gave him what was probably the world’s worst pep talk before their first date. I only met her a few weeks ago though. Don’t you dare tell Octavia,” she adds on hastily, “she’ll kill us all.” 

“I’m glad that one of us was paying attention,” he tells her, slightly surprised to find that he actually means it. He’s happy to share them with her if it means they get to have another adult in their lives who they can rely on. “It’s good that he had you…” as he trails off, it starts to get awkward again, and he desperately wants to avoid that, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “My first date speech would have been infinitely worse.” 

She bites down on her lip, hesitance in her eyes, the exact opposite of what he hoped to inspire, and he just knows that he’s not going to like what she’s going to say. “Bellamy, you know that she has ties to Dante, right?” 

His attention snaps back to the group, a chill running down his spine as his eyes narrow in Maya’s direction. “How close of ties?” 

“Not— she’s fine,” Clarke says, but there’s something in her voice that makes him look back at her, sure that there’s more to the story. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear before grabbing hold of the countertop like she’s bracing herself for his reaction. “She’s Dante’s goddaughter.” 

“Fuck,” Bellamy whispers harshly, looking back at the laughing group. He watches for a moment as they struggle to play whatever board game they’ve moved on to before turning back to Clarke, a horrible thought in his head. “You don’t think that she’s using…?” 

“No,” Clarke says resolutely, “absolutely not. It wouldn’t even make sense; the only reason would be to get to me, and I don’t think anyone would even see the connection. For as much as you all were around the clinic and around me, I was careful to keep you off the radar of any major players.” 

“Okay,” Bellamy says warily. He believes Clarke, but he also knows that she can be wrong about things. 

Her hand slides forward a fraction of an inch as though she was going to place it over his, a comforting gesture that she’s made countless times, but one that she’s not supposed to make anymore. He watches the hand fall back to her side, tightening into a fist with a different type of weight on his chest. “Besides that, she has very little to do with him anyway.” 

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” he responds because he still feels unease rolling around inside of him and he needs her to put it to rest even if it’s not her job anymore. “Maybe they appear that way from your perspective because that’s what they wanted you to see. I mean, it’s not like your families are exactly friends, it could have all been an act.” 

“It’s not an act,” she tells him, looking him straight in the eye with a level of confidence that he envies. _How different could his life be if only he were that sure about everything?_ “I talked to her.” 

“You talked to her?” he questions a little dumbly. 

The barest hint of a smile seems to find its way into her face, but he can’t be sure before she turns away from him and everyone else, gesturing to the hallway with a tilt of her head. He follows her lead easily as she moves away from the main space. For one tense second, he thinks she might be leading him to his room, but she stops just outside his door. 

Then she turns back to face him though, and he hastily wonders if they would have been better off in the bedroom. At least in there, they would have some sense of space between them. Here, the tight walls prevent him from taking a step back, a move which he is desperate to make with the smell of her shampoo thick in the air. 

He watches her take a steadying breath, her chest rising and then lowering as though time has switched to slow motion. He is just about to suggest they talk outside, sensing that maybe she needs the space and air as much as him when she suddenly appears to regain her composure. “Yeah, I talked to her. I didn’t know at first who she was. In the beginning, she was just this girl he liked, and then even after, Maya isn’t that unusual of a first name.” 

As she continues her explanation, he leans back against the opposite wall from her, more interested in what she has to say than trying to escape the situation. “I didn’t put it together until he brought her to the clinic to meet me and let’s just say I wasn’t thrilled.” 

“Why?” 

A shadow passes over her face; she looks at him, then away quickly and the answer seems obvious. Still, she gives it to him anyways, “Two people, both with secrets, I could see how it would end and I didn’t want that for Jasper. So right there, before I even said hello, I asked Jasper if he knew.” 

“I’m sure that went over well,” he says, noticing the way she’s picking at a thread in her jeans, but then she surprises him, looking back at him with a half-smile. 

“It was actually fine. Once he realized what I was asking, he laughed, Maya said, of course, and then he suggested that I order pizza,” she recounts the story, shaking her head. “It was so easy for them...” 

“Kids,” Bellamy offers unsure of what else to say. 

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees with a small laugh, “Anyways, after I still was worried, so I tracked her down. We talked and I felt better. Even though he took custody of her when she was eight and her parents died, Dante doesn’t seem to have played much of a role in her life which lines up with what I noticed. Aside from the odd appearance where he needs her around to look good, she was never with them. She seems like she’s free to do whatever she wants.” 

“Okay, if you think it’s fine then I’ll trust that,” he says after a moment, suddenly more intent on the wistfulness to her story, a longing for the childhood that she didn’t have, than anything to do with Jasper, Maya, or even Dante. It reminds of all the questions he’s been holding on to, but particularly Lincoln’s revelation about her parents. Still, he’s not sure now is the time to ask. 

“Just say what you want to say, Bellamy,” she tells him sharply, but then she gathers her hair across her shoulder even though it’s still too short to actually sit like that and lets out a sigh. “Seriously, it’s fine. Just ask.” 

He hesitates for a second longer, more unsure now that she seems tired than when she just seemed annoyed, but ultimately, he continues, knowing that she isn’t going to let him out of asking now even if she would prefer he didn’t. “It was your parents, right— your Mom and Kane? They are responsible for the accident that killed your Dad... Wells.” 

“My Dad, definitely,” she says, twisting her hair around her finger and looking out the window at the end of the hall instead of him. “I found a note from Wells a few weeks after the funeral tucked into my office at the clinic, explaining how he’d found evidence, that he suspected all of them— my Mom, Kane, his Dad, they were all in on it.” 

“Damn,” Bellamy mutters. Even though he’d been pretty sure, hearing her explain it all hits on another level. 

She nods her head in agreement but otherwise says nothing. Instead, she continues to answer his original question. “With Wells, I don’t know for certain, but it was almost the exact same and I know now that they would have had a reason. I was trying to find proof, that night at the warehouse. The guy Wells thought they got to chase Dad off the road was one of Dante’s men.”

Watching the waves of anxiety flow off her, Bellamy feels a rush of shame. “That’s what you were doing that night.” 

Her head shoots up like she forgot for a moment he was there, “Yeah.” 

“And did you get it? The proof that you were looking for?” 

“For Wells, no. But my Dad,” she stops herself, biting down on her lip and looking at him with her big blue eyes. He sees a million different emotions flash across them, so different from the deep nothingness he saw only a month ago. They continue to shift until finally, determination settles in her expression, “The papers you walked in on me looking at? Those were proof that they ordered the hit on him.”

“Fuck,” he curses, thinking back to that moment and the cold devastation on her face when he accused her of not knowing what real struggle was like. “God, I’m sor—” 

“No, Bellamy, don’t,” she tells him fiercely, taking a step closer to him. “There’s no way that you could have known.” 

“Maybe not then,” he relents with a bitter laugh, “but after? I should have known. I should have bothered to fucking ask before I decided I knew everything.” 

He closes his eyes, unable to bear the sight of her staring earnestly up at him, so he doesn’t realize she’s moved the rest of the distance until her hand is hovering against the side of his face like it’s not sure it should be there. His eyes fly open and there she is, only a few inches of space between them. 

“Listen to me carefully because I will not have you feeling guilty about this. You didn’t know because I didn’t want you to know.” 

“Clarke.” Her name comes out in a rough whisper, more emotion in his voice than he’s let her see in a long time. 

“Are you two planning to come back anytime soon,” Murphy yells, startling both him and Clarke apart, “or do I need to turn this music up louder?” 

Her face is flushed, a fact which he desperately tries not to fixate on, as she moves further away from him and back towards everyone else. _It's fine,_ he tells himself, trying to slow his heart; he can do this.

*****

Lying in bed hours later, Bellamy finally allows himself to do what he’s thought of doing a million times in the last few months. Before, he’s somehow always managed to convince himself it was a bad idea, but tonight none of his arguments stick and then when he picks up his phone, her name is right there at the top. It's too easy to click on it, to find the peace he desperately seeks. Then before he knows it, his phone is pressed against his ear and the call is connecting.

“Bellamy, what’s wrong?” she asks immediately, and he instantly feels the storm calm within him. 

“I miss you sometimes—" he says, the confession flowing out of him with no restraint, "Actually, more like all the time and I hate it. I shouldn’t miss you. It was a few months in 28 years of life, a tiny blip on the radar. It shouldn’t feel like this. Like I’m missing a piece of me. For fuck’s sake it was only—” 

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off. 

“No don’t be,” he starts, rubbing his hand down his face and then letting out a sigh, “Fuck, it’s not— what you did sucked, it was absolutely, undeniably the wrong choice and I think you know that, but it’s done now. It happened and we can’t change the past.” 

Her breathing is steady on the other end of the line, comforting in a way that he hates. “Where does that leave us then?” 

“I haven’t got a fucking clue,” he responds with a huff of slightly deranged laughter, which she mimics after a moment, “I just— I’m not saying that I’m able to forget, or even that I’m going to forgive, but I need to stop letting all of it have so much power over me. I need to move on.” 

“Okay,” she says, sounding hesitant, “I can understand that. I won’t come around any—” 

“No,” he cuts her off, throwing his arm over his face and smiling to himself even though there’s really nothing to smile about. “God, we are really bad at this.”

When she responds, he can hear her own smile in her voice. “Really, really, bad.” 

“I’m not saying don’t come around,” he continues after a moment, “The opposite actually. Don’t hesitate to come to the apartment if you want to see everyone. Maybe I’ll actually walk into the clinic some days. We can be… I’m not sure friends is the right term and acquaintances doesn’t fit either, but whether or not to say hi shouldn’t be an internal struggle anymore.” 

He hears a hitch in her breathing and the ruffling of fabric, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“At least, I don’t want it to be anymore,” he amends, “because honestly, it’s exhausting. I don’t know what you…” 

“I miss you too,” she confesses after making him wait for a long moment, “I know I shouldn’t complain because it’s all a mess of my own making and I’m not, but it was just so hard. One second, you were a part of almost everything I did, and the next you were gone. I didn’t know how to cope with that on top of everything else so I shut down. It’s not good or healthy, by any means, but it’s what I do.” 

“It’s understandable,” he tells her, trying to ignore the way his heart clenches at the image of her alone and heartbroken, “Octavia was pretty much constantly around that first week and I had Miller too. You didn’t have that.” 

She laughs a particular laugh which he can still tell is a sign of embarrassment, “Well actually, I had you. I spent hours sitting alone in the apartment— the one that I’d barely been in for months— after I left you guys at the warehouse. Then the silence became too much, so I picked up my phone, didn’t dial or anything, and started talking to you. It was just random things at first, but then it was more, explanations and apologies that I didn’t think I deserved for you to hear.” 

For a second, he’s tempted to ask her what she said, to tell her that she could have just called, but he doesn’t. Part of it is because he’s a coward, mostly though, it’s because he’s not quite sure if he’s ready to hear them. He’s getting there, slowly, but total forgiveness still seems like an unreachable goal sometimes. 

Instead, he adds a teasing tilt to his voice that he hasn’t used in a long time, “So basically you turned me into your imaginary friend.” 

When she laughs this time there’s nothing but genuine amusement and for a moment it’s like everything in his world is right. “That’s pretty much exactly what I did. You make a pretty good imaginary friend... but I’d take the real thing over it any day. If that’s an option, I’d really like to get back there.” 

“Me too,” he agrees, feeling content and drowsy in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Maybe they can actually do this.


	13. We'll wish this never ends

Everything doesn’t change overnight for Bellamy, he didn’t really expect it to, but slowly, things start to get better. Clarke begins coming around more and with her more regular presence, everything else seems to fall into place. They don’t talk, not really, not more than a casual hello and an easy goodbye. They could now though, and that makes all the difference.

He finds the questions that have continuously haunted him for the last month, quiet in his mind without anger having to take their place, which allows him to focus on the present; move forward as he wanted too. 

Yet for all that he’s moved forward, he still finds himself parked outside her clinic most nights. It became part of his routine, a tranquil moment in his busy days, and he isn’t willing to give it up. While he might not have to be there, he’s thankful that he is one late night in May when Abby suddenly shows up, strutting into the clinic with purpose.

Without another thought, Bellamy has got the truck door open and is stepping outside. He's not going to just barge in there, he still has enough sense to know that that would be a bad idea, but he can’t handle not knowing what is going on either. Not now, he has an idea of what their relationship actually looks like. 

Stopping at the edge of the parking lot, he considers his options before eventually deciding to go through the back door. He tries the lock and is equally relieved and disappointed to find it unlocked; with everything that’s happened, how can she still think that’s a good option? He pushes aside that concern quickly though, and focuses on the present when he hears them start to talk. 

“Seriously Mom.” The annoyance in Clarke’s voice is clear to him even at the end of the opposite hall, “What are you doing here? I don’t have the time or the desire to exchange pleasantries with you.” 

“Don’t be a brat,” Abby reprimands hauntingly. For a second, he thinks Clarke might have some scathing retort, but then he is able to catch sight of her jaw clenching, and her eyes hardening. Abby waits for another second, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised before continuing, “You haven’t been answering my calls.” 

“Wow, I wonder why,” Clarke responds, making no effort to hide her disdain. 

"Theo has been so devastated, Clarke. What if something were to happen to you and we never fixed this?" Abby tells Clarke, laying on the guilt so strong with her overly empathetic voice that Bellamy doesn’t even bother repressing his eye roll. He does manage to stop the scoff, but only because he doesn’t care to be found. 

“I wasn’t aware that there was anything worth fixing? What exactly is it you think is there to salvage?” 

Clarke levels her mom with a look, one that most people would back away from for their own wellbeing. Abby, apparently, doesn’t have that common sense, “You are being ridiculous. I don’t know why you have to act this way.” 

“Why do I have to act this way!” The cold indifference in Clarke’s eyes turns to fire, “I was not the one who broke us, Mom. That’s all on you. Our relationship never mattered to you in the past, I don’t see any reason for that to suddenly change.” 

“Stop acting like a child,” Abby snaps back, “I have always done everything. I have always put in every effort—” 

A cruel laugh escapes from Clarke’s lips, dark and twisted, unlike anything he’s heard before even at their worst. “Oh right, every effort, how could I forget. Remind me again though, exactly how long had you and Kane been sneaking around before you deemed me worthy enough to know?” 

Abby lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Really? We are back to this again. Again? Why must you insist on hating me for moving on.” 

If Bellamy didn’t know better, he might feel bad for Abby. As it is, he does, so instead, he just waits eagerly for Clarke to tear her Mom’s act to shreds. “Three years! The dust hadn’t even settled on Dad’s coffin before you were hopping into Kane’s bed.” 

“How dare you,” Abby starts to say, her entire posture rigid, but Clarke just continues on, either not seeing or maybe not caring how close to the edge she’s venturing. 

“Oh no, wait, that happened before there was any need for a coffin at all.” The hash sound of flesh against flesh rings out across the room. Clarke doesn’t flinch, but Bellamy sure as hell does. 

_What the fuck?_ He takes a step closer, not caring anymore if they spot him. While their conversation was obviously escalating, he never once thought it would actually get physical. If he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t have stayed on the sidelines. 

He takes another step closer, moving to the point where either of them would be able to spot him if they looked over, before stopping when Clarke’s voice comes out strong and clear, “Get out.” 

“Clarke,” Abby says in exasperation, not a single ounce of regret on her features, which tells Bellamy all he needs to know about how often something like this has happened. He feels his stomach twist together as the visions of Clarke’s idyllic childhood slip away. 

“No,” Clarke responds sharply, “I am not a child anymore. I am not a tool in whatever game you are playing. You don’t get to come in here, into my home, and do shit like that. Get out.” 

Abby’s lips thin into a line and Bellamy gets ready to rush forward in case she decides to try something, but after a moment of staring Clarke down, she turns to the door. With her back to them both, she pauses, “Your home isn’t nearly as safe as you think it is, be careful.” 

Bellamy sucks in a breath, horror rushing through him at the implications of that simple warning, sounding much more like a threat to him, but Clarke once again, remains unfazed, responding with only the barest edge to her voice, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Almost as soon as Abby is out of sight, Clarke seems to deflate. She doesn’t make any move to touch her rapidly reddening cheek or even appear to be in any sort of pain, but he can see a wiriness in her. It's not the first time he’s seen such a thing, but it’s the first time that he hasn’t dismissed it as an inconsequential set back that she’ll soon move past. 

Right now, the exhaustion looks like part of her, ingrained so deeply in her bones that he’s shocked he’s never seen it before. She looks tired in the way he often feels, as though the world with all its weight is threatening to push him down. She lets out a sigh and then even though nothing outwardly changes, he can see the shift, can see her readjusting the weight to continue on; it’s a move he’s more than familiar with. 

“You can come out, Bellamy,” she says softly, still looking out the window. 

Starting a little bit, he moves the rest of the way into the waiting room, “I didn’t realize you knew I was there... Are you okay?” 

“I was starting to think that you’d never step foot in here again,” she tells him instead of answering his question. 

For the first time since he left his truck, Bellamy starts to wonder if he should have followed Abby in here so quickly, “I can go...” 

“No,” she responds quickly, finally turning around to face him. 

He sucks in a harsh breath; this close, her cheek looks even worse than he thought and there’s a slight shakiness to her that he hadn’t expected to still see. “Are you okay?” 

She shrugs, “It is what it is.” 

“That’s not— Clarke, that’s not normal!” he tells her, taking a step closer, but fighting off the urge to reach up and graze his hand across her cheek like maybe he’d be able to remove the red blotches with his touch, “Does that happen often? What even happened?” 

“Do you really want to know?” Clarke asks pointedly. His eyes widen in surprise at her tone, but before he says anything, she has her eyes closed and has taken a steadying breath, “Sorry, that came out harsher than I meant it, but really, do you want to know? I don’t know where the line is anymore, and I don’t want to wreck what we’ve finally managed to get back because you have issues with my family.” 

“It turns out, I’m not the only one who has issues with your family,” he responds with a forced smirk, wanting to make her smile. She does and he contemplates just leaving it at that, much preferring that look on her face, but he knows that letting it go does nothing to help them in the long run. “I want to know. I get that I was an asshole about everything before—” 

“A justifiable asshole,” she interjects, the smile still mostly on her face. 

He grins back at her easily, “Okay sure, but that’s not really the point. I know everything now and I’m okay with it. You can tell me things without having to worry I’m going to freak out.” 

The smile on her face totally disappears and the shadow that he thought he was done seeing returns. “I know everything, right Clarke?” 

“Almost everything,” she says quietly, not looking at him. 

“Clarke,” he complains, but there’s surprisingly little true annoyance in the word. It’s more laughable at this point to him, the idea that there are still secrets. Being upset or angry would make much more sense, but he finds he’s more exasperated than anything. 

“It’s not major— like it’s important, but it’s not something—” He watches her run her hand through her hair like she wishes she could put it into her customary bun. As though that act itself could instill some calm to a clearly uncomfortable situation. “How much do you know about my life?” 

Shifting a little on his feet, Bellamy feels his cheeks start to heat up and hopes that it isn’t noticeable. He runs his hand against the back of his head, undoubtedly making his hair stand on end, “Just about everything.” 

She watches him for a second and some calm seems to seep back into her as his discomfort increases. There’s a teasing glint to her eye when she finally opens her mouth to speak, “Wow. Stalker much.” 

A surprised laugh bursts out of him, “Yeah, I even had the whole stealthy watching you thing going on.” 

“You totally did,” she responds with a happy laugh, but that light fades far too quickly for his tastes. 

“It will be fine,” he tells her gently after a moment of silence. If he was a better person, maybe he’d tell her that she didn’t have to say anything, but he’s not, and honestly, they are probably better off for it. Time has shown that they don’t do well when secrets are involved.

“I know,” she says, but she is back to staring out the window. 

“Hey,” he calls out softly, pausing until she looks at him, “I’m here, right? If after everything that happened, I’m still standing here talking to you, nothing is ever going to change that… I can’t promise I won’t get angry or be upset, but you can count on the fact that I’ll come back.” 

Their eyes stay locked together for a solid minute and Bellamy feels his heart pounding in his chest. It’s been literal months since he’s looked at her this closely or since he allowed her to see him this plainly. The urge to shield himself is still strong, but he fights it off, knowing instinctively that she needs this. 

“Okay,” she says finally, “okay, let’s just— can we go into the exam room? I need to do something with my hands while I tell this story and the cupboard in there could use some organizing.” 

He follows her into the back room easily, settling himself on the stool automatically as though it had only been hours since he last held this position and not months. Pulling off his jacket, he waits for her to get comfortable in her task. 

“So, we never really had the exes talk,” she starts once her back is to him and the cupboard is open in front of her. 

His forehead creases in confusion; that is not where he thought this was going. Still, he’s content to follow her where she’s leading them, “No, we never went past the very basics. There was a girl in college, right? And then a guy sometime after?” 

“Exactly,” she confirms, before stopping again. He watches her shoulders rise and fall, waiting patiently, but unable to deny the apprehension growing inside of him every second she delays. “The guy— Finn..."

“Yes,” he prompts after a moment. 

She twists to face him suddenly. Still crouching, she looks at him with pleading eyes and he desperately wishes he knew what she was asking him for, certain he would give it to her if he could. “You have to understand. I was angry; I’d just found out about my Mom and Kane which made him seem like a great idea.” 

“Apparently, you’ve got a thing for the bad boy,” he jokes, hoping to make her smile again and then unreasonably disappointed when her face remains stony. 

“He wasn’t a bad boy, not really, not in the way you are thinking; at least I didn’t think he was. He worked for my family, lower level, street dealing. There was really nothing overtly wrong with him other than a little too much exuberance. The problem was that I only went for him because I knew that it would piss my Mom off.” 

Bellamy grins a little despite himself, “I can see the appeal.” 

The eye roll that she managed to push back earlier comes forward with all the vengeance he hoped. “Yeah, I’m sure you can. We were together for nearly a year and it was— I don’t know, it was fine. He was fun in a reckless sort of way that allowed me to escape my problems, but he was clearly more invested than I was, and that caused problems.” 

She shifts a little so that she is sitting cross-legged across from him, any attempt at organizing abandoned, and then continues, “I broke up with him eventually, and sure, he wasn’t thrilled with it, but it was fine— I thought it was fine. At first, he tried to get me to change my mind, showing up at school unannounced, calling at all hours of the night. I ignored him though, and eventually, he went away.” 

“And then he came back,” Bellamy guesses when she trails off. 

“And then he came back,” she confirms, looking up at him for a second before turning her gaze back to the elastic band in her hand, “Only this time, he was more— he’d always been a bit much, opinionated and loud about those opinions, but now he was forceful about them too.” 

A sick feeling starts to build in his stomach at the picture she’s painting, “Did he hurt you?” 

Instead of answering, she just waves her hand dismissively at him. He frowns back at her, but doesn’t interrupt as she continues. “I tried to ignore him again and it worked until it didn’t. It's not— he didn’t seem dangerous, just unstable, so I tried a new approach, I let him back in which, I know—” 

“What the hell, Clarke? That’s a terrible idea.” 

“Was a terrible idea,” she finishes, flashing him a grim grin, “but I was desperate. I was afraid that he was going to hurt himself and sure that if I could just figure out what had changed, I would be able to help him.” 

Bellamy’s eyes soften, thinking back to his and Clarke’s very first argument, “You wanted to save him.” 

Her lips thin together and her eyes fill with painful regret, but she nods her head, “It didn’t take long for me to figure out what was different; he was eager to tell me. Apparently, he had started working with this new person. Together, they were going to change the town, make it better. This person had this new drug, which was going to be the key to everything.” 

“Cage,” he says after a moment. 

“Yes, although I didn’t know that at the time. I tried to convince him to tell me what he was taking, who was giving it to him and he got mad, but that wasn’t unusual by that point. More often than not our conversations would end with him storming out. I didn’t think anything of it until he showed up a few days later while I was having lunch with Wells and his family, out of his mind with rage and a gun in his hand.” 

“Shit,” Bellamy curses, watching Clarke in horror. 

“Yeah, it wasn’t— I tried to talk him down, to get him to listen to me or at least let them go, but he wasn’t having any of it. I could barely even recognize him. He kept muttering about how I knew too much, that I was in danger and he had to keep me safe.” 

She stops suddenly with a harsh breath and even though she’s still looking down at her hands, he knows that there would be torment in her eyes if he could get her to look at him. Leaving the stool behind, he settles on the ground beside her while she attempts to get her breathing under control. With only a second of hesitation, he offers her his hand which she takes almost instantly, holding tightly like he’ll be able to keep her from falling apart. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, not sure what to say. It’s not okay and telling her so seems pointless, same with reminding her it’s in the past. For several long moments, he wrestles with whether to say anything at all, but then he feels her start to shake beside him and saying nothing is no longer an option. “Whatever happened, you did your best. It was a shitty situation with no good options, but whatever happened isn’t on you.” 

“Bellamy, Wells’ wife was with us, a sweet girl who he’d met in college; she had nothing to do with our fucked-up life. His kid was there, his kid, she wasn’t even two yet,” she continues desperately like she didn’t hear him, “I had to do something. He didn’t think I was a threat, not really, so he never searched me for a weapon like he did Wells; he probably didn’t think I even knew how to use a gun.” 

His heart pounds harder in his chest, certain now where this story is going and yet terrified of hearing the ending. He’s done it before, killed for the sake of protecting others and he doesn’t regret it, but the act still haunts him. It’s not something he’d wish for anyone to bear, least of all her. 

“I waited for as long as I possibly could, tried everything else I could think of, but he was getting more erratic and I couldn’t risk waiting too long. I held off till his back was turned and then shot him straight through the head. Quick and efficient, exactly like I was taught.” 

Clearing his throat, he takes a second to think before he speaks even though he ultimately goes with his initial response. “Altogether, a clean shot through the head isn’t a bad way to go.” 

“God, how are you— how can you even look at me,” Clarke asks, pulling her hand away from his and then burying both of hers in her hair. Her voice is wrecked though, so he doesn’t take the move personally. Instead, he just twists to watch her more closely as she continues talking with her forehead resting against her raised knees, “His blood is on my hands and his crime was just loving me too much.” 

“Hey,” he says softly, resting his hand on the side of her face to get her to look at him, “you did what you had to do to protect the people you loved. If there is anyone who understands that, it’s me.” 

She opens her eyes to look at him and when she does a tear leaks out of the corner of her eye, which he quickly wipes away. Almost unconsciously, she seems to lean into his touch, closing her eyes again like the world is too much to face, “You think you’re a monster, Bellamy, but you’re not. You’re one of the good ones, trust me. I know what a monster looks like.” 

Even though she doesn’t say it, he can hear the _I see one in the mirror every morning_ as clearly as if she had. He wants to tell her that it’s a lie, her goodness radiates off her like the sun, but he doubts it will have any more impact on her than her comforting words have had on him. Instead, he voices the thought that has been replaying in his head over the last few months. “Maybe there aren’t any good ones or monsters; maybe we are all just doing what we have to, hoping that someday, we won’t be forced to make the same choices.” 

“Do you really believe that?” Clarke asks, looking up at him with something close to hope in her eyes, “Not just about me, but about yourself?” 

He twists a piece of her hair around his finger, unaccustomed to the shortness, stalling for time. Eventually, he lets his hand fall and then forces himself to look at her, to offer her the same vulnerability she’s offering him, “I’m trying to.” 

She smiles at him gently like she gets it and he’s startled to realize that she probably does. Maybe if they work together someday, they will both believe it.

*****

The rest of May and most of June passes by far too quickly for Bellamy’s tastes. The younger group has their prom; Clarke comes over to the apartment to help everyone get ready alongside him, taking pictures and laughing with Octavia while he frets about her growing up. She stays, though, after they all leave with grins on their faces, settling down beside him on the couch and nudging her shoulder against his.

He still worries, wonders if he did enough, but it’s not so bad when she is next to him. In fact, nothing seems quite so bad when she’s around. They still aren’t what they once were; sometimes he thinks maybe he’s ready to go back to that, times when he doesn’t want her to go home at the end of the night, but then he remembers the pain, the way he fell apart without her and thinks not yet. 

Work is busy, busy enough that he doesn’t feel the need to go back to dealing for extra cash, especially after Octavia tells him that the school she got into is going to offer her a scholarship. It won’t cover everything, but he doesn’t need it to. Some assistance is enough. 

One by one, everything seems to fall into place and life is not only okay, but it’s also good. He realizes one night as graduation day looms less than a week away, that he’s happy and it’s strange. It’s not that he’s never been happy before; Octavia, their group, working alongside Miller, they have all brought him varying levels of joy. Maybe it’s more that he’s never felt comfortable existing in that happiness before. 

As he stares up at the ceiling, thinking about the party they will have tomorrow celebrating them all, though, he feels peace settle inside him. Monty and Harper are headed out east, Octavia is going north, far enough that she’ll be able to have some of the independence that he knows she craves, but close enough he’ll be able to visit at least somewhat regularly. Maya is going overseas, looking to explore the world and he’s pretty sure that Jasper is going to end up with her. 

He thought he’d feel empty at the thought of them leaving, but instead, he just feels proud. They are all going to go off to chase their dreams. Proud and inspired. Maybe without them around, he’ll finally be about to pull out of the drug game once and for all. He could take on more constructive projects, start to move up from where he is or maybe he can go back to school too. 

There are a million possibilities in front of him and each of them seems more wondrous than the last. 

Surprisingly, his newfound acceptance lingers into the next day or maybe he’s just distracted from the momentous changes that will soon be taking place by the fact that Lincoln and his sister seem to suddenly be very chummy. 

“Stop glaring,” Clarke reprimands, but there’s mostly amusement in her voice, so he doesn’t take it too seriously. 

Not taking his eyes off Octavia, who has for some reason felt it necessary to grab Lincoln’s fucking arm three times in the last five minutes, Bellamy addresses Clarke with all the maturity he can muster, “I’m not.” 

“You are,” Clarke says simply, patting him on the shoulder. He’s about to contradict her again when he hears Harper laugh behind him. 

“You are,” Monty agrees, “if you had lasers in your eyes, Lincoln would be dust.” 

“Maybe, he should be,” Bellamy mutters darkly. 

Clarke moves around to block his view, “Calm down. It’s fine. Totally innocent—” 

“She keeps touching his fucking arms,” Bellamy busts out.

“I’d be touching his arms too,” Raven pips in, walking past them. 

“Since when do you have a thing for arms,” Murphy asks Raven, stepping beside Clarke and throwing his arm over her shoulders. “Besides,” he addresses Bellamy, “you don’t have to worry about the touching. It’s the looks; all the heart eyes and shit. It used to be damn near impossible to be in the same room as you and Clarke. Still is that way sometimes.” 

“Not helping, Murphy,” Clarke groans, stepping to the side to push his arm off. 

Clarke’s move put Octavia back in his line of sight, reminding him of his point. “She’s barely 18 and he’s older than me!” 

“Which is exactly why it’s innocent,” Clarke explains, probably more patiently than he deserves, “She has a crush on him, it’s fine. He’s not going to do anything about it.” 

Bellamy crosses his arms, “So, what? She gets her heart broken by him?” 

“No, she gets an amazing friend who will go to the ends of the earth for her,” Clarke corrects with a smile, “There are far worse things to have.” 

“Are there?” he mutters back darkly. 

A series of gunshots ring loud from outside, once twice and then a third time, and the retort that was on Clarke’s lips falls away. The air seems to stiffen, time slows to a stop. He looks around the rest of the room and finds a bunch of matching horrified expressions; they all know what makes that sound. Counting the people around him, something like dread settles inside of him because they are one important pair short. 

That thought is enough to restart the clock. Within a second, he pushes away from the counter and is moving towards the door with haste. He races down the stairs, Clarke a half step behind him, hoping that his intuition is wrong. 

It never is. 

The street is eerily empty when he bursts through the front doors of the building seconds later, most people opting to run away from gunshots and not towards them. The desertion makes the pair of bodies lying on the hard cement sidewalk easy to spot. 

Taking a step forward, he tries to confirm what he already knows; what the set of goggles sitting a few feet away tells him. He tries to move forward, to look so that those behind him don’t have to, but try as he might, he can’t seem to move one foot in front of the other. 

He hears a horrific cry from behind him, and then another one, but he doesn’t move. 

Clarke rushes forward, barking out instructions, but he doesn’t move.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t because he’s been here before and he knows that the amount of blood pooled around them isn’t something anyone can come back from.


	14. This sick strange darkness

Closing the bedroom door softly behind him, Bellamy leans back against it and closes his eyes, shielding them from the harsh hall light. Octavia has finally managed to cry herself to sleep, Monty and Harper on either side of her with matching tear tracks down their faces and the absolute last thing that he wants to do now is wake them up. 

Murphy took off before the ambulance had even parked, back when Clarke was still yelling out frantic instructions to a group of stunned useless individuals. Raven followed after him with a final pained look at the trio of teenagers collapsed on the ground once it was clear that there was nothing to be done. Lincoln hovered at Clarke’s side, only to disappear with a whispered word to her when the cops started to show up. 

With everyone taken care of, he starts to feel the agony of the last few hours seep into him, and then just as quickly, he pushes it aside. Everything is not taken care of. Not yet. 

He lifts himself off the door, cold, hard purpose filling his movements, and walks to the cabinet where he keeps his gun. It's time to end this once and for all; he won’t allow anyone else to be collateral damage in a war they have no stake in. 

His hand is on the doorknob, his gun tucked into his waistband when her voice soft, yet crisp, stops him in his tracks. “You’re better than this Bellamy.” 

For a second, he considers ignoring her, but with the adrenaline coursing hot and heavy under his skin, it isn’t really an option. Turning, he watches the careful way that she scrubs the now nonexistent blood off her hands, and a wave of fury washes over him. She knows who he is, has from the very start and it’s cruel of her to pretend otherwise now. 

He’s not some saint and she’s not the one who’s going to rescue him. That's not the way life works. She should understand that. After all, she isn’t a saint either. For all his issues when he found out about her past, he has never once tried to change who she is. He knows that he can’t. 

“I’m not though, and you know that,” he says, stepping closer to her. He keeps going until there’s barely a sliver of space between them. Until he’s in her face, intimidating her like he does everyone else. It doesn’t work; he shouldn't have expected it to. She just matches his movements, closing the gap and staring up at him defiantly. No matter what she never backs down; the image of her watching Cage unflinchingly flashes across his mind. “I am selfish, Clarke. I make the wrong choices and I don’t care. I’m _bad._ ” 

“Says who? You. You’re not; I’m telling you that you’re not.” 

Her hand burns his skin where it rests against his chest, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to protect him from her touch. If he were a better man, he’d walk away and actually stay away this time, leave her and never come back, but he’s not. Over and over again, he's proved that he’s selfish; she’s the only drug that has ever tempted him. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her, letting out a sigh that’s meant to sound dismissive, but just comes out desperate. Part of him, a larger part than he’d like to acknowledge, wants to believe her. He knows now that she isn’t blind to the dark realities of the world. She's seen what bad men look like, how they act, and if she doesn’t think that’s him, who else is a better judge. Yet even if she sees the darkness for what it is, he can’t help thinking that she will always be blind when it comes to him; he surely is with her. “I am who I am.” 

“You don’t have to be,” she tells him fiercely, eyes shining. 

“I don’t have to be?” he snaps, the pure faith in her eyes igniting the flames of anger inside of him. “There’s no choice. Not for me, not for you. Neither of us ever had a fucking chance, but Jasper? Jasper did. You said that she was safe, that it was going to be fine!”

Instead of hardening like he hoped, her eyes just soften, “I know—”

“No, don’t,” he stops her, looking away for his own sanity, but still unable to take even the smallest step back. “There's nothing to say. I am going to go do what I have to do so that three weeks from now or a month or a fucking year, we aren’t in the same spot. I will be whoever I have to be to keep the people around me safe; who I’ve always been.” 

“And where does that end? How does it end? Because there is no outcome that I see there that’s anywhere close to acceptable,” she asks in outrage. He feels rather than sees her shake her head, the tips of her hair brushing against his arm. “Who you are, Bellamy, is better than this.” 

She sounds so sure, so absolutely certain in his goodness that it’s hard not to believe. He wants to believe it, but he can’t. 

“Despite what you may think,” she continues unabashedly, “I know you and I know that you stay up at night worrying about these kids; about what their life is like when they aren't with you. Where their next meal is coming from. If they are ever going to be able to find a way out of this life.” 

Letting out a shaky breath, he focuses his attention on the wall instead of her. His eyes trail over the various cracks and dents before settling on a distinctive patch of splatter stains, fallout from one of Monty and Jasper’s first experiments. He closes them quickly, taking another harsh breath. 

“I know that you take chances doing things that you have no business doing, all in the faint hope that somehow, you will be able to spare someone from the weight you carry around. All because you want to be able to preserve every tiny bit of their innocence that you can.” 

He wraps his arm around her waist, using the familiar movement to ground him. She leans further into him, resting her head against his chest, but still, he keeps his eyes closed and his head tipped away from her. 

“And I know,” her voice cracks a little and it takes everything within not to look down at her, “I know that this is just as hard for you as it is for all of us. You feel it all, Bellamy and you feel it so strongly that sometimes I wonder how it is that you get up and keep going every day. And I know, I know, that you think you have to be this way to survive, that it’s the only option now, but it’s not. There’s a different way.” 

“Is there?” he asks her in a whisper, pressing his cheek into her hair to catch the tear running down his cheek, “because something has got to change. I can’t keep doing this.” 

“There has to be,” she responds softly, “You want everyone around you to be happy and it’s amazing, it’s beautiful, but the price of our happiness is not yours. You don’t have to sell your soul to save everyone else’s.” 

She falls silent at that and then there’s nothing but the sound of both of them breathing to fill the void between them. It's uncomfortable, her words make him uncomfortable, but he forces himself to sit in the feeling. He thinks about her face when she told him about Finn and the uncertainty in her eyes when he told her that she did what she had to; forgiving her for something that she has never been able to forgive herself for. 

Right now, she’s offering him the same chance. She’s telling him that she will take some of his burdens, so that he doesn’t have to carry them alone anymore. The question is whether he can find it in himself to share, and that’s harder than he thinks maybe it should be. It's more than just a reluctance to put his darkness on her; taking care of everyone, doing what needs to be done, has been his identity for as long as he can remember. 

Who is he without that? What is he worth? Maybe nothing. But maybe something. 

For the first time in what feels like hours, he allows himself to look at her. Despite everything, the issues she has, the ones he knows that he has, she’s still here with her arms wrapped around him like he’s the only thing she needs in the world. Over and over again, she’s told him that she sees goodness in him, something worthwhile, not just for what he can be for others, but for what he already is. Maybe it’s time he starts to believe it. 

“How do I keep everyone safe then? Happy?” he breaths out quietly because for all his talk, he’s never wanted to be this person. It was never about what he wanted; it was what everyone else needed. 

“You don’t,” she says, resting her chin against his chest and looking up at him. His instinct is to jerk back, to close off again, but he keeps his eyes locked on her and fights it off. “We take care of each other, and you trust that we are all capable enough of fighting for our own happiness.” 

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he admits, tracing the edge of her cheek softly with his fingertip, “If it were to come down to Octavia or me, you or me, I’m always going to choose one of you.” 

She lets out a sigh, but there’s pure fondness in her eyes. “I know, and I’m not asking to. Honestly, I’m making the same choice as you in that kind of situation. We both are who we are, and I don’t want to change that— I’m not looking to change that. I just want you to choose yourself sometimes, to recognize that your life matters too because it does. At least to me.” 

He feels laughter bubble out of him even as tears run down his face because really, how is this his life? How did he get this lucky?

“Okay,” he says finally, “I’m not making any promises, but I’ll try, alright? From now on, we will do things together.” 

Smiling brightly at him, she wraps her arms around his neck; he holds on tightly. It's been forever since he's done it, held her like this, but he needs it right now. Maybe they both do. All he knows is that with her in his arms everything, the anger, sadness, and regret, doesn’t seem quite so overwhelming.

*****

There are clear skies and a brightly shining sun the day of Jasper’s funeral like some kind of cosmic joke. It was raining the day they buried his mother, storming like the entire world was tormented by her passing; a concept that he found ridiculous even at 13 years old.

Standing in a foot of mud, Octavia huddled in his arms with no one other than a neighbor from down the hall beside the two of them, he’d watched her be lowered into the ground. He probably should have been bitter, pissed that the man who had vowed to love her couldn’t be bothered to show up, but he wasn’t. 

The rain had whipped against his face, soaking through his too-thin jacket and he hadn’t cared. He stood there while some person who’d never met her, who had no clue about all the horrible shit she’d done or all the kindness that she used to have, went on about eternal peace. Then, when it was finally over, he’d turned around and walked away. He had a life to live, Octavia to take care of, and no time to mourn a person who had died for him years before. 

It took years for him to think about that moment again, even longer for him to consider it with any sort of weight, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to have the same distance here. He’ll likely replay and regret this moment for the rest of his life. 

Clarke walks towards him from the other end of the parking lot, the same black dress she wore to Wells's funeral smooth across her figure. Blatantly, he hopes that he never has to see that dress again. Any thoughts like that are overrun when the other door on his truck slams shut. Stopping his hand from nervously running though his hair, he looks over just in time to see Octavia walking sharply towards Monty and Harper coming out of Clarke’s car. 

“You got her to come,” Clarke says, coming to a stop beside him. 

He narrows his eyes, still watching Octavia before letting out a sigh and turning to Clarke, “Barely.” 

“Barely counts as a win,” Clarke tells him with a kind smile. 

“Thankfully,” he responds half-heartedly. It had taken him over an hour of talking, mostly yelling, to convince her that she would regret missing this, and even then, he’s not sure he actually got through to her. “She’s upset and that hurt has always turned into anger for her. Normally, she’s just angry with me, but this time, I guess the hurt is so overwhelming that I’m not enough and she needs to be angry at the entire world.” 

“That doesn’t sound familiar at all,” Clarke teases him. He shakes his head at her, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. _What could his life have been like if he’d always had this?_ Someone around to make him smile even when there was absolutely no reason to. “It’s a beautiful day.” 

The sun shines on her hair, making her skin seem even paler against the darkness of her dress and the smile drops off his face. Before, he would have let his scowl say everything, but he’s trying still, trying to let her in more. “Seems kind of fucked up.” 

“I don’t know,” she starts, reaching forward to link their hands, “I kind of like it. From the moment I met Jasper, he was so… it was like there was an entire sun's worth of energy bottled up inside of him.” 

Holding on tightly, Bellamy is reminded that Clarke never saw the version of Jasper that was more shadows than anything. The last year he’s been happy, happier than Bellamy ever thought he’d actually see. It adds another bitter note to the day. He was finally in an upward swing only to have it cut short. Where’s the fucking justice in that? 

Clarke nudges her shoulder against him and he lets out a sigh. He squeezes her hand once in thanks and then starts walking forward to meet the rest of the group. It’s not fair, not at all, but they all have to keep trying to move forward anyway. 

The service passes quickly; he’s not sure that he believes the comforting words anymore this time, but at least now he wants to. It makes it easier. That along with the group of people around him, Monty and Harper standing with their arms around each other; Murphy with an old worn T-shirt on rather than any attempt at formal wear; Raven, when she cracks an incredibly bad joke; Octavia and the way she keeps her glazy eyes forward the entire time, not allowing a single tear to fall and then, of course, Clarke whose steady presence makes everything a little easier. 

For an unimaginably horrible experience, everything seems to be going alright until they are nearly back at the cars and Harper starts to lose it, tears streaming down her face without restraint. Clarke detaches her hand from his and goes hold her, but it’s too late. Like a title wave, everyone begins to fall apart. Monty starts to cry on the other side of Clarke and then there’s a stray tear sliding down her face that she doesn’t have a free hand to wipe away. 

Octavia lets out a harsh curse. Murphy echoes her, kicking at the tire beside him while Raven crouches on the ground with her head in her arms like she can’t bear to see the world around her. As Bellamy watches each of them all be consumed by their grief, guilt builds heavier in his chest. Every moan, sob, and curse, a new weight on his heart. Until eventually, it all becomes too much and he can’t hold back any longer. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault—” 

“Don’t,” Monty cuts him off abnormally sharp. For a second, Bellamy thinks that maybe he is rightfully angry at him, that someone will finally yell at him in the way he knows he deserves, but then his voice cracks in sorrow. “Don’t take away his choice like that. We have never had a lot, but we always had our choice and he chose Maya, chose to try and save her even if it ended up costing him everything. He was willing to die to give her that chance. Don’t dismiss his sacrifice by making it about you.” 

Bellamy watches the young man in stunned silence. In all the years he's known him, Bellamy doesn’t think he’s ever said that much to him, let alone anything that blunt. It’s enough to make him pause and reflect. Everyone around them looks between the two of them warily, but in the end, he still says what’s on his mind, “If you two never met me, he would never have been on the street then. He probably wouldn’t have even known Maya existed.” 

“No,” Monty agrees coldly, “because he would already be gone. If we didn’t run into you in that alley that day, I doubt he would have made it to fourteen, definitely not sixteen. Either way, I’d still be standing here, except I’d be here burying my best friend alone.” 

“I just…” Bellamy starts to try and explain before the heaviness of Monty’s explanation fully lands, taking all his words away. He can see it. Thinking about the boy Jasper was when he found them, way too skinny, rough and broken with a hatred for the world that could only be dulled with pills, he can see how Monty’s version of events would come to pass, but it does nothing to ebb the guilt inside of him. 

“I know,” Monty says, offering him a kind yet shaky smile, “but you have to know that you didn’t force us— any of us into anything. You took us in, you gave us a family when we had none; you took care of us. You didn’t do anything wrong here.” 

He hears murmured agreement from everyone else and it’s finally enough to push him over the edge. The torment of emotions that he’s been trying to keep locked down for days suddenly bursts open. Hastily, he wipes at his face to clear his eyes, “Fuck, guys I don’t— I didn’t do anything special.” 

“No kidding,” Murphy cuts in sarcastically before anything has the chance to get awkward, but underneath the flippant tone, Bellamy can hear the same emotion, “You convinced a bunch of troubled kids to deal for you. It’s fucking brilliant, but it doesn’t make you a saint.” 

“Shut up, Murphy,” a chorus of voices call out amid laughter. It’s a good sound, one that he’s happy to hear. He meets Clarke’s eyes and she tilts her head to the side with a smile as if to say, _see, we’ll all be okay._

“He was happy,” Monty says softly, “and died for love rather than hate. It doesn’t make any of this okay, but it makes it better.”

*****

The next week is unsurprisingly hard, but the week after that isn’t much better either. Instead of alleviating, Monty’s sadness seems to deepen to the point where Bellamy feels like his overwhelming concern is totally justified. Fortunately though, it ends up prompting an important discussion with the young man.

In the shadow of playground equipment, not all that far from where he first found them, Monty confesses how impossible it is to live with Jasper’s memory haunting him everywhere he goes. The conversation is long and hard with more than a few tears shed by both parties, but by the end of it, they’ve settled that he should undoubtedly leave early for school. While Bellamy can understand why he’s hesitant, unsure of making the change now, when it means leaving everyone else too, he is able to reassure him that they will all be fine without them around. 

Monty and Harper leave with the promise to stay in touch a few days later, and Bellamy feels relief wash over him. He did it, they are out. Hopefully, never to return. He wants them to live a full happy life far away from the pain and destruction of this place. 

With Monty taken care of, he switches his focus to Octavia, whose anger has only grown, and to everyone else. He tries to reestablish their old routine, but without Jasper nor Monty and Harper, the group feels splintered in a way that makes gathering together uncomfortable. When he laments that one sleepless night, wondering if they will ever find a new normal, Clarke says is all the more reason to keep pushing for it. 

Even though he feels horrible for thinking it, more than once, he’s considered that this all might be easier for her. Then he’ll catch the hollowness in her eyes though, and decide that it’s not easier for her, she’s just more accustomed to the people around her dying. She’s been here before, gone through the motions and come out the other side. She had a system and as fucked up as it is, he envies it. 

Yet for all his jealousy over her ability to cope and his feelings of inadequacy, he wouldn’t want her anywhere else. The night that everything happened, they fell asleep wrapped around each other and that pattern has continued every night since. If there’s one thing he’s grateful for in all of this, it seems to have given him her back. 

Or at least most of her. 

For all that he wishes he could handle everything as well as her, he also worries that she’s shutting down on him again. While he hasn’t seen the coldness of March back in her eyes yet, the shadows of January are more apparent than he’d like. He lets the fearful feelings fester inside of him for a few days before confronting her about them, conscious that they are supposed to be doing things differently this time. 

She starts when he asks her what’s going on like it’s still a surprise that he pays close enough attention to her to notice when something is off. She takes a long minute to answer him, biting her lip and looking at him with hesitance in her eyes before finally offering to tell him everything if that’s what he needs, but asking him to give her a while longer before sharing; she wants to have actual answers to give him and not just more questions. Looking at her closely, he asks if what she was doing is dangerous, only nodding his head in semi reluctant acceptance when she quickly promises no. 

He can wait, and he does. In all truth, thoughts of her mysterious agenda are quickly overshadowed as things with everyone else get more unsteady. In fact, it doesn't cross his mind again until nearly a week later when they are all gathered in the apartment, the first true group gathering since the funeral and she’s the only one not there. 

“Well, everyone is here,” Octavia snarks from the corner, “Does that mean that you’ve finally decided to do something for Jasper and Maya?” 

“O that’s not why—” he starts instinctively before stopping himself. They have had this argument multiple times over the last few weeks, she’s not going to suddenly change her mind. All she can see is revenge whereas he understands now that shooting someone down isn’t going to help any of them in the long run. 

Not that there’s even a clear target to go after. He looked after everyone had settled down that first night to find some evidence, needing to know for certain that Maya was the true target and that the rest of his family was safe, but there was nothing. Running a hand through his hair, Bellamy lets out a sigh, which has the unfortunate effect of deepening the anger on Octavia’s face. 

She turns her back on the rest of them, presumably ready to storm back to her room as has been her habit of late, but she doesn’t make it. Clarke’s entrance halts her retreat and then brings her back into the fold. “Just wait for a second, Octavia, you’re going to want to hear this.” 

Closing the door behind her, Clarke walks towards them with purpose in her step, but hesitancy in her eyes. He feels dread settle in his stomach, the promise of answers heavy in his mind when she won’t meet his gaze. 

“It was my family,” she tells them once she’s come to a stop beside him. Even if he’d didn’t already see it coming from looking at her, he’d know from the tension radiating off her. Everyone else, however, doesn’t seem to. Raven opens her mouth to ask, but Clarke continues before she can get a word out. “It was my family who put the hit out on Maya.” 

She throws an evidence bag full of bullets down on the table, but nobody looks at them as an uncomfortable silence fills the room; he looks around the group, sees the regret on Clarke’s face, the pain on Raven’s, the grimness on Murphy’s and feels more helpless than ever before. He doesn’t have a way to fix this for them and it kills him. His gaze moves to Octavia and he isn’t surprised to see fury written on every one of her features. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke starts to say, voice somber, “if I had—” 

“Don’t,” he cuts her off harshly, too harshly. He shakes his head, trying to get his control back, “Christ, if anyone should be sorry it’s m— well, anyways, it’s not you who should be apologizing.” 

Instead of saying anything, she reaches over to place a comforting hand on his arm, and despite himself, he leans into her touch. He doesn’t deserve it, he’s sure of that, but she’s offering and he’s done trying to deny himself it. 

“Of course, that’s why you don’t want to do anything about Jasper.” Octavia’s accusation rings out clear and cold across the room. 

He jerks his eyes away from Clarke to look at his sister, “No that’s not at all why—” 

“What are you still doing here?” Octavia asks Clarke, cutting him off.

“O, we didn’t know,” he tells his sister, a warning clearly in his voice.

“My brother is an idiot who’s in love with you,” Octavia continues like he said nothing, “so he's not going to say it, but I will. Get out.” 

“Octavia,” he growls. 

“Don’t come back. We were doing fine before you showed up with your fucked-up family drama and twisted sense of loyalty. You are poison. People love you and it gets them—” 

“Enough!” Bellamy snaps, stepping around Clarke towards Octavia, “Outside now!” 

For a second, she just glares defiantly back at him, unmoving, so he wraps an arm around her, intending to physically direct her where he wants. She shrugs the arm off almost instantly, but continues walking towards the door. While the action stings a little, she’s doing what he asked, which is really all he can hope for now. It’s fine. Or at least he thinks it is until she turns back to Clarke with a cruel glint in her eye, one foot out the door, “Loving you gets people killed.” 

He doesn’t need to turn around to see the pained look on Clarke’s face, he knows it’s there. Instead, he pushes Octavia the rest of the way out the door and shuts it behind him, disappointment outweighing the irritation in him, “That was unnecessary and cruel. I didn’t raise you to be either of those.” 

Octavia doesn’t say anything else, crossing her arms, as he leads them up the stairs to the roof. He's grateful for the reprieve; he needs the extra time to think. Somehow, he needs to figure out how to get this rage out of her before it eats her and everyone in her path. 

“You’re blinded by grief and I get it, but you need to step back now. You’re not thinking clearly,” he says once they are looking out at the city streets below them, using every ounce of calm in him. 

“I’m not thinking,” Octavia scoffs at him, “you’re still fucking the enemy!” 

“The enemy! Octavia, for God’s sake, listen to yourself for a second, that’s Clarke. _Our_ Clarke!” 

“Yeah, the Clarke that you were convinced three months ago was the devil,” she deadpans. 

He steps towards her, regrets coursing through him, “Because I was upset and that hurt turned into anger. It was easier to be mad than it would have been to acknowledge I was sad, so I didn’t and it was wrong. You told me it was wrong. Don’t make the same mistakes I have when you know better.” 

“Are you done?” 

“No, Octavia, I’m not done. This can’t continue and it’s partially my fault for allowing it all these years—” 

“Well, I am,” she cuts him off dismissively, “so you can stay up here and fight with me or go back downstairs to where she's undoubtedly waiting and we both know which you would prefer.” 

“It’s not like that.” Her eyes flash dangerously like she’s hoping for a fight, confirming to him that walking away is the right decision. That doesn’t make it any easier, through. He turns away slowly, indecision weighing heavily on him as he moves until finally, he auses with his hand on the doorknob, “I’m not choosing her over you, not now and not ever, I’m sorry if you’ve felt like that before.” 

He leaves it at that, opening the door and walking back downstairs with a heavy heart. If he could, he’d go back to the day where he could make everything better for her, but he can’t and it’s time for him to stop trying. His mind flashes back to his conversation with Clarke, _trust that we can take care of ourselves._

“I wasn’t sure if I should go,” Clarke says as soon as he opens the door, “but I didn’t want to just leave.” 

Quickly, he closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her and then resting his head on her hair, “I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else.” 

“Then I’m not going anywhere,” Clarke promises after a moment. They are silent for a while, both taking whatever comfort they can from each other, until Clarke pulls back, “She’ll come around.” 

Bellamy looks at her, wishing he had that confidence, “I hope so, but Clarke, I could barely even recognize her.” 

“I can,” she says softly, brushing his hair off his forehead. Her fingers linger in his curls, gently running through them for a moment before she steps back with a sign, “She’s right, though.” 

“Is she?” he asks desperately, “She’s angry.” 

A grimace settles on her face, telling him that she doesn’t like what she’s suggesting any more than him, “Doesn’t mean she’s not right too... they’ve gotten too big, both of them, and it’s costing people their lives.” 

“I know,” he eventually agrees reluctantly, “but how? They are two of the biggest crime empires, how are either of us going to even make a dent?” 

“Together,” Clarke responds with fire in her eyes, “together, we burn it all to the ground.” 

**End of Part 2**


	15. How this world turns cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late. As you've probably realized by now I'm a bit of a mess and I totally didn't figure out it was Saturday yesterday until I was knee deep in writing a oneshot and by that point it was late, I didn't have this chapter pre-edited, nor the titles for this section ready to go, so it just didn't happen. 
> 
> When I started posting this I had up to chapter 17 written and up to like 13 edited/formatted and in the time since I've only managed to write two chapters. Life was busy, inspiration was low and then when it came back, it was for other projects. If you're a writer, you'll get it and if not, well, I'm sorry, writers are weird. All that to say, I'm going to cut back to posting only one a week, every Saturday, until I get this done. I hope it will be soon and y'all will only miss one update this Tuesday, but I don't know and I don't want to end up with nothing. 
> 
> Okay, on to part three. I love this part; it's when we finally get to see Bellamy and Clarke be the amazing team we all know they are. Plus, there's more Abby and I love myself some evilish Abby.

# Part 3: Your Guardian Angel

“She’s gone,” Bellamy cries into the phone the minute that Clarke picks up. He hears a sharp intake of breath, the panic that’s filled him in the last five minutes, now hitting her. “I came home from work and she was just fucking gone.”

“Do you think someone took her? Does the apartment look different?” she asks back in a rush, and he starts to feel a little better. There’s no way she can fix this, but it’s reassuring to hear someone else jump to the worst-case scenario too. When she continues though, there’s some hesitancy to her voice, “You don’t think she’s just screwing with you, right? Octavia hasn’t been the most level headed recently.”

He lets out a sigh, looking at the mess he made ripping through the place. “No one took her. She left a note. A note buried under a pile of other shit that took me forever to find, but it’s definitely from her. Apparently, she needed some space, and didn’t think I’d give it to her, so she didn’t bother asking.”

“Wow, that just—” Clarke starts before cutting herself off like she doesn’t have the words or at least words that he'll want to hear. “Did she say anything else?”

“No,” he responds, not even bothering to try and keep the bitterness out of his tone as he stares down at the peace of paper in his hand, “not a fucking thing. She’s out there, Clarke, and I don’t know where. She hardly took anything, not even the takeout money I left on the counter. She’s out there with practically nothing. Why the hell did she think that was a good idea?”

“God, how can she—” she stops herself again, but this time he knows for sure it was to avoid saying anything unfavorable about his sister, “Okay, just wait. I’ll be there in 10 minutes and then we will find her.”

She hangs up the phone without another word, and he can feel the rest of his panic ease. He’s still worried, not to mention angry, especially when he looks around the messy room again because she could have definitely left the note somewhere he could easily see, but he has faith now that it will be okay. Clarke is probably the most stubborn person he knows, if she says they’ll find her, they will.

It feels like barely seconds have passed when he hears the front door open and in walks Clarke, her stethoscope still slung around her shoulders. He blinks at her in surprise, “Did you teleport here?”

Her brow pulls together as she walks towards him, “No… are you okay? You seem remarkably calm.”

He lets out a huff of strand laughter, running a hand through his hair. “It’s— I’m trying to not freak out, to you know, trust that she’s not doing to do anything unbearably stupid. Plus, she can’t have been gone too long, and… we are going to find her, right?”

“Right,” she confirms with a soft smile, squeezing his arm once comfortingly before turning away to take off her jacket and shoes. And the stethoscope. He smiles as he watches her, wondering if she left a whole room of patients to be with him, but for once not hating himself if that happened to be the case; he’s allowed to need her here. “I was thinking about that on the way over... do you have any idea where she’d go?”

“Sure, but she won’t go anywhere I’d suspect,” he tells her with a sigh, the heaviness of the situation settling over him again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. How do you feel about calling Lincoln?”

“Lincoln? You think she would have told him where she was going?” he asks with an edge to his voice.

“No,” she responds, shaking her head in fond exasperation, “but he’s good at tracking people. He will be able to locate her even if she doesn’t want to be found. Lord knows he found me quickly every time I used to try and ditch him.”

The memories flashing behind her eyes tempt him to ask questions, but he doesn’t. Now isn’t the time. Instead, he just nods his head in approval and then watches in interest as she pulls out her phone. They talk for a couple minutes, hushed words that he doesn’t even try to distinguish, and then she turns back to him, the phone in her hands, “He’ll let us know as soon as he’s got something.”

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself of all reasons to stay calm, but they don’t work nearly as well as they did before. She takes his hand, leaning into his side and he leans back, drawing every ounce of strength from her he can. Hopefully, Lincoln is as good as she says he is because he’s not sure how much of this he can take.

*****

They don’t hear back from him that evening or any time during that night, but Bellamy manages to convince himself that his silence isn’t a horrible omen. Or at least mostly convince himself. Part of him feels like he’s seconds away from imploding, the nervous energy of doing nothing after a night of tossing and turning, waiting for the phone to ring, finally getting to him. He thinks he appears more put together than that though, but maybe not.

Either way, Clarke does eventually leave for the clinic after he promises her multiple times that he’s okay. She’ll call him if there’s any news and there’s no reason they both should stare at a silent phone all day. Not when there are so many better uses of her time. He allowed himself to be selfish with her yesterday when the panic was all-consuming. Today, he needs to share her with everyone else.

She tries to get him to go with her, but he refuses. He doesn’t want to be around people, doesn’t want to keep busy. If he did, he wouldn’t have called Miller and told him he couldn't go in. Right now, he just wants to sit here and wait, which she thankfully must get if the lingering hug she gives him before walking out the door is any indication.

Even though he tells himself that his determination to stay here isn’t because he thinks Octavia will just come back, he’s heart rate picks up the moment he hears the front door start to open, late in the afternoon. He tries not to let his disappointment show when it’s Raven who walks through, but he makes no effort to hide his annoyance. “Did Clarke call you?”

“No,” she says in confusion, her ponytail swinging as she walks to the counter and puts her bag down, “Why would she call me?”

“To come to check on me,” he reveals, running a hand across his face. He shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions because now he has to explain, “Octavia took off.”

“What?” Raven practically screams, “When?”

“She was gone last night when I got home.”

“And you didn’t think to call? I could have been helping search— what are you doing just sitting here?”

While there isn’t an accusation in her latter question, he still feels the sting of her words; they are far too close to what he’s been thinking to himself. As for the bite of her former question, that’s totally justified. He’d debated calling her and Murphy last night before ultimately deciding against it until they knew more.

“Lincoln’s looking for her,” he finally answers, “I didn’t get the impression that she’d be anywhere we’d think to search.”

“What even happened?” she asks with a sigh, coming to stand behind where he’s sitting on the couch.

He reaches over to grab the note off the table to show her. It's worn and wrinkled from the number of times he's grabbed it in the last 24 hours, a physical sign of his stress, but he doesn’t let that bother him. Raven, maybe more than anyone other than Clarke, knows how much of a mess he is. “I don’t know. I thought— I thought that everything was fine. It was just a phase that she’d move past eventually.”

“There was no reason for you to think differently,” Raven tells him, moving to sit on the armrest. He looks at her, trying to find the absolution in her gaze that he hasn’t been able to find within himself, that not even Clarke’s comforting words last night could give him. “We’ve been here before, Bellamy and it’s always turned out fine. There was no reason to think differently.”

And just like that, he does. Unlike Clarke, Raven knows Octavia, knows her in a way that not a lot of people do. She was there when Octavia started getting into fights, a scrawny 11 year old who had no business throwing punches and in turn, she’s seen the way he’s let Octavia take that anger out on him with nothing more thinly veiled disapproval. Then later, she was the one who taught Octavia the right way to punch, a better way to fight back, when he just couldn’t deal.

He’s not close to Raven like he could be, she’s never been his partner in the way that Clarke became very quickly, but for a long time, she was his one true teammate. If there was anyone out there who would understand why he thought it would be fine, it’s her. She’s almost as close to Octavia as he is and she didn’t see it either.

As horrible as it sounds, the notion that he wasn’t the only one to screw up gives him the final push he needs to stop feeling guilty. When the guilt goes though, the worry increases, “You think she’s okay?”

“Yes,” she responds confidently even though he knows she has to be just as concerned. She bumps her shoulder against his and he bumps back, grateful that she’s not going to hold that fact that he didn’t call her right away against him. He absolutely should have. “She’s strong and smart. Fierce. You did a good job with her.”

“You too,” he says, unsurprised to find that she won’t meet his eyes. Really though, he’s not sure where they would be if he hadn’t bumped into her again all those years ago. In the last almost decade, she’s come to mean so much more, especially to Octavia, than he ever would have thought when he was 19 and making out with her in the bathroom bar.

Fortunately for her, she is saved from answering when the door opens again and Clarke in walks .

“Did he find her?” Bellamy asks, standing up and walking towards Clarke, sure that she wouldn’t have come back here this early without news. He just hopes that it’s the good kind.

“Yes,” she answers, sparing Raven a quick glance, “She isn’t actually that far, that’s why it took him longer than he thought it would. Apparently, she is more convincingly devious than me.”

There's a lightness to her tone which puts him at ease; she wouldn’t be making jokes if Octavia wasn’t at least mostly okay. Raven must feel the same because she lets out a huff of laughter, “Octavia has never not been devious. So, she’s okay?”

“From what Lincoln said, yeah. He actually talked to her,” she adds on at his confused expression, rolling her eyes in wry amusement, “said that it didn’t feel right watching her creepily from his car, and she didn’t run, so that’s a positive sign.”

“Okay, I’m going to go then, but let me know what happens?” Raven says, already moving towards the door.

“You don’t have to go,” he calls out instantly, “I never meant to not include you.”

She waves off his halfhearted apology, “It’s fine. I was only planning to drop that stuff and then go. If you talk to her though, tell her to call me.”

“I will,” he promises, vowing to both her and himself, that he won’t close off if this doesn’t go the way he wants it to. Not that he really knows what he wants to happen.

Clarke opens her mouth like she also has an objection, but seems to change her mind, instead opting to wave goodbye, reiterating his promise to call with an update. He waits until the door is closed to turn to Clarke with the question on his lips, but she beats him to it, “I don’t think she’s going to talk to us. Definitely not me, but I don’t think you either.”

“She’s not coming home, is she?” he asks with a defeated sigh.

He can see the answer in her sympathetic eyes before she’s even uttered a word. “No, I don’t think so.”

A wave of sadness washes over him, stronger than the irritation or worry that has plagued him for the last 24 hours. While he knew it was coming, he thought he still had time. There were things he wanted to tell her, lessons he still had to teach her. Clarke wraps her arms around him and he rests his head on her shoulder, allowing himself the comfort of knowing that she’s still here.

“I just want to know that she’s going to be okay,” he whispers into her hair once he finally feels confident that he can speak without emotion clogging his words.

She lets out a huff of breath, almost a laugh, but not quite there. “Of course you do, but unfortunately, that’s not how life works. You wouldn’t be able to know that for certain even if she was right beside you… I did have an idea though.”

“Yeah?” he asks, leaning back so that he can see her face, "You have an idea, how shocking."

The noise she lets out this time is a true laugh and it does wonders to chase away his clouds. “I was thinking maybe I should suggest that Lincoln stays with her. Then he’d be there to watch out for her.”

His immediate response would be a hard no, but he forces himself to bite back that protective instinct and instead, consider the potential of her suggestion. “As he watched over you?”

“No, not anything nearly as formal and I wouldn’t want him to report back to us, I don’t think he would even if I asked based on our conversation before. He could just be there, as a backup, as a friend. I feel like he’s been looking for a way out for a while now, but doesn’t know how to leave. They could look after each other.”

“He’s older than me, Clarke,” he says in lieu of a true answer, the way that Octavia twirled her hair, talking to Lincoln at the party clear in his mind.

He can tell that Clarke is tempted to laugh at him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just pats his arm comfortingly. “You know that if that’s your only objection it’s not good enough, right? Besides, we don’t even know if he’ll say yes.”

Letting out a sigh, he nods his head in approval as she pulls out her phone. It really doesn’t have to be what he thinks it might be between them and if it is, well, is that really the worst thing in the world? He grimaces to himself as Lincoln answers the phone, _yeah it might be._ He’s not mentally prepared for his baby sister to fall in love with anyone, let alone someone as old as Lincoln.

“Is she okay?” Bellamy asks, rather than a greeting. Right now, he cares more to hear that answer than he does to worry about what might happen at some distant point in the future.

“Yes,” Lincoln responds kindly even though Bellamy is sure that he must be getting tired of hearing this question, “She’s staying at a motel by the airport.”

_The airport,_ Bellamy thinks, a whole other wave of terror flooding through him. He’s about to demand some better information, but Clarke beats him to it, “The airport. She’s going to fly out.”

“It’s a decent place, clean, and she seems to have a plan. I think she’ll be okay,” he continues as though Clarke hadn’t said a thing. While Bellamy doesn’t like the hesitance in his affirmation nor the fact that he didn’t tell them where she’s planning on going, he pushes the irritation down. Now isn’t the time to let that side of himself out.

“Actually, we were talking,” Clarke starts with a pointed look at him, telling him that now is his last chance to back out. He lets out a sigh, but otherwise says nothing, so she continues, “I think maybe you should go with her.”

“Clarke, I’m not going to take your money,” Lincoln responds after a moment, an emotion in his voice that Bellamy doesn’t know him well enough to recognize.

He does, however, see the tilt of Clarke’s head for what it is, fond amusement for an old argument. “And I’m not offering it.”

“Good, because I won’t take it. I don’t need it,” Lincoln tells her. Clarke rolls her eyes in exasperation, but Bellamy is distracted by the ease with which he’s accepted the idea.

“You’ve already considered it.” Bellamy doesn’t phrase it as a question, he knows it’s the truth and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Clarke looks at him in surprise while Lincoln hesitates on the other end of the call. “Yes— not necessarily like— but yes.”

“Can I talk to you for a second,” Bellamy asks, already pulling the phone out of Clarke’s hand. She shoots him a confused look, but allows him to take the device.

He’s got the phone off speakerphone, up to his ear, and is a few steps away from Clarke still standing beside the island by the time Lincoln answers, “Sure.”

“You know she likes you,” Bellamy says, getting straight to the point.

“I like her too.”

Bellamy _just_ resists the urge to run his hand through his hair in irritation, conscious of the fact that Clarke is watching him and that he doesn’t want to turn this into an argument before it’s even started. “That isn’t how I meant it.”

“I know how you meant it.”

There’s an awkward pause while Bellamy absorbs his words, unsure of what to say. How is he supposed to respond to that? Lincoln has got to be delusional if he thinks Bellamy is going to just give him his blessing to date his sister. His _baby_ sister.

“Look,” Lincoln continues before he’s got a chance to wrap his mind around it, “she’s barely 18. Absolutely nothing is going to happen, at least not for a few years, but for now, she makes me laugh. She knows about my past, acknowledges it, but she doesn’t limit me to it. With her, I don’t have to be anything other than myself.”

Fuck, he’s screwed. He glances back at Clarke, making no effort to pretend that she isn’t watching him, and realizes just how real Lincoln's statement is. Clarke's confession all those months ago, _you made me smile,_ rings in his head like it was only yesterday. “I swear to God if you hurt her.”

Lincoln dares to laugh at that and Bellamy suddenly doesn’t know why he was so concerned about being civil. Before he can properly reiterate the threat, however, Lincoln is able to sober up his amusement enough to talk. “Sorry, it’s just, I was about to say that.”

There a million different retorts on the tip of his tongue. In the end, though, he goes with the one that’s the closest to what he knows is not an asshole response. “Clarke can take care of herself.”

“Completely agree,” Lincoln answers, but Bellamy can hear the wry amusement still in his tone, “So can Octavia… but just because both of them can, doesn’t mean that they should have to. You’re not going to disappear on her again, right?”

He looks back to Clarke, who’s now turned her back on him, and feels the weight of his fuck up. “No, I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

“Okay, good,” Lincoln tells him, a hesitant sort of relief in his voice that makes Bellamy feel guilty. “It’s— I’m not sure what she’s got planned, what the two of you have planned together, but whatever it is, it’s not going to be easy. That family is on a whole other level, and she’s going to need you to stick it out even when it gets messy.”

“I am not going anywhere,” Bellamy vows fiercely even as he wonders how this conversation got so turned around.

The exhale that Lincoln lets out speaks of pure relief, the kind Bellamy feels deep within his bones. “Okay, that’s good. I know Clarke wants me to leave; she’s been dropping hints for months, but I just couldn’t. Not when...”

“When you could be leaving her alone,” Bellamy finishes for him. “Don’t worry, she won’t be alone.”

“I’d say I’ll look out for Octavia, you look out for Clarke, but if we are being blunt, it’s probably going to be the two of them saving our asses.”

Bellamy laughs, feeling a certain companionship with the man that hasn’t in the past. “Probably, but we’ll be there beside them anyways.”

“Exactly,” he responds before hesitating, “I’ll uh— I’ll tell Octavia I talked to you, obviously, but I’ll do my best to get her to call. I’m sure she will eventually; she’ll miss you because even though it doesn’t seem like it right now, she loves you. That's more powerful than any temporary feelings she's got in the moment.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy says softly and then hangs up the phone.

“I take it that went okay?” Clarke half asks when he steps up behind her, “You aren’t storming to your truck to go drag her back, so that’s a good sign.”

“Hilarious,” he laughs at her, rolling his eyes, “As if I’d ever do something as overprotective and ridiculous as that… No, it went fine. I’m never going to like the idea of them together, but to be fair, I don't like the idea of her with anyone. For now, though, I think I can accept that it will be good for her to have someone who cares about her around even if that person isn’t me.”

“Good,” she says, twisting around to smile up at him, “I happen to think that they will be good for each other.”

Bellamy hums in reluctant agreement, not liking the smugness on her face, and she just grins at him, continuing to put the groceries Raven dropped off away. He looks around the space, quiet save for the sound of Clarke opening and closing cupboard doors, and feels the pit in his stomach return. Suddenly, he needs to not be here just as desperately as he felt the need to stay only a few hours ago.

He turns to Clarke only to find her already watching him, a box of crackers still in her hand. He struggles with what to say, how to translate the black hole growing inside of him into comprehensible words. Moving forward, he takes the box, puts it away and then when he still doesn’t have the right thing to say, he goes with the only thing he’s got. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Okay,” she responds, understanding alight in her eyes. He lets out a relieved sigh, thankful once again that she has always seemed to be able to just look at him and know what he’s thinking. “We could go back to the clinic... or we could go back to my place.”

His eyes widen in surprise at the suggestion, but he doesn’t discount it immediately. In fact, the more he thinks about it, going there is proactive. He looks around again, trying to imagine going to sleep without Octavia a few feet away from him like she’s always been and instantly knows that it will be impossible. Especially now that he knows her being gone isn’t any sort of temporary.

Without Octavia, Jasper, Harper, or Monty, the usually cramped place feels alarmingly empty. So empty that he’ll happily take Clarke’s apartment and all the weighty history that comes with it as an alternative. “Yeah, your place sounds good.”

*****

He quickly packs up a bag of clothes, knowing that it’s going to be a bit before he wants to be back here if he ever wants to be back here, and then both of them are walking out the door with only a quick glance back. The drive is remarkably easy, at some point, he’ll have to go back and get his truck, but for now, he’s content to just stay by her side.

Part of him expects a wave of horror to wash over him when he walks through her front door a few steps behind her, but it’s fine. The darkness of the last time he was here hits him and then dissipates. They aren’t in that place anymore and he’s not really concerned that they will end up back there. No, it’s a different worry lingering under the surface as he walks into her bedroom to put his bag down.

“You know, it’s okay to be sad, right? Or even angry?” Clarke says softly, following after him. “It doesn’t mean that you don’t think she can be okay by herself or that you aren’t being supportive.”

“Honestly, I— it sucks, don’t get me wrong, I wish she had gone about this in a totally different way, but at least she’s out now,” he tells her slowly, trying to work out the strange sense of peace that’s fallen over him as he talks to her. “And I’m glad. She’s free from this mess; all of them are. Monty is going to get probably a million different degrees and Harper will be able to create the family with him she’s always wanted. Octavia will travel the world and see everything that's only ever existed in stories.”

“They are all going to be okay,” Clarke surmises, understanding his rambling perfectly.

“Exactly,” he responds, meeting her eyes before turning away, “and I can’t help but think maybe you should go as well. Get out while you can—”

“Bellamy, can we just not do this again.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” he says, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, “but it makes sense. There doesn’t need to be two of us doing this and I just— I don’t want to be the reason you’re back in this mess.”

“You’re not the reason,” she retorts, turning around to face him with fire in her eyes. “They are the reason I’m back in this mess. All of them, with their selfishness and greed. They forced me back here.”

“How am I any different?”

She climbs on his lap and cups either side of his face in her hands. “Why do you do what you do?”

The question along with her close proximity throws him and it takes him a few seconds to formulate a response. “It’s what I have to do.”

“Exactly!” she says, grinning at him in a way that seems completely contrary to the discussion at hand. “It was never a choice for you, not really. You don’t want this life, you haven’t in the past and you don’t for the future.”

“I don’t know how you can be so sure of that,” he responds quietly, watching his hands on her waist instead of her. “I’m not nearly as confident, but you somehow seem to know, like it’s fact and not a matter of perspective.”

“Bellamy,” she sighs, all fond amusement. “Where does all your money go?”

“What?” he asks, so startled by the question that he forgets about his reluctance to look at her.

She’s smiling at him, any trace of annoyance gone from her eyes and replaced with something that he’s not sure he’s ready to name. “After you’ve finished making sure that everyone else is taken care of, that they have what they need and some of what they want. After you put money away for emergencies and for Octavia, where does the rest of it go?”

He feels his cheeks heat as she continues to stare at him steadily and her meaning becomes clear. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

“I didn’t know, but honestly, there was no way you should be living in a tiny two-bedroom, in probably the roughest part of the city, shopping using coupons while dealing. I know you have never done more than you had to and that’s definitely part of it. There’s a minimum though, and that minimum says that you should have more leftover than you appear to. Once it was clear that you didn’t have a secret drug problem, it just made sense that you had been putting money away.”

Sighing, he rests his head against her shoulder, the explanation coming a little easier as she starts to run her fingers through his hair. “I really don’t know when it started, I’ve done it as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, it was an odd five dollar bill or a handful of change here and there stashed away instead of used to buy a piece of candy at the store. When I was a teenager, it was a twenty instead of a night at a bar and then later, when it was possible, more tens and twenties, hundreds too.”

“Wow,” she says under her breath, “I didn’t realize it started that early.”

He smiles up at her a little sadly. “I’ve always wanted out, always held out the hope that one day, I would get the chance to be free, and hopefully, I’ll still get that chance, but I’m here now, which means you get the choice. This doesn’t have to be your fight anymore. You can leave, and I’ll make sure that they don’t come back to haunt you again.”

“No,” she shakes her head venomously before leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. “This is my fight too and we are going to fight it together. Then, once everything is gone and there’s nothing left to haunt either of us, we will leave; we will go and have that life that you’ve always hoped for.”

Taking a deep breath, he lets the smell of her shampoo overwhelm him while the feel of her warm and steady beneath his hands centers him. He can do this. He can accept that this is her war and she has a right to fight it. He can stand beside her instead of in front of her and together, they can build the kind of future he’s always dreamed of. “Okay.”

He doesn’t know who moves first, but when their lips press together, soft and sweet, it tastes like a promise. A promise of a life filled with love and laughter, peace and happiness. She tangles her fingers more thoroughly in his curls, arching into him; he tightens his hold on her hips. They will make it through this, he thinks as he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her even closer. What they have is worth fighting for.


	16. I'll be there for you through it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I'm back and I'm so, so sorry for just disappearing. I told myself when I started that I wasn't going to be that person and well, life... is exhausting lol. 
> 
> I'm back and better than that, the story is finished, so if any of you are still here, you can know at least that it won't happen again.

“Finally,” Bellamy groans good-naturedly when Murphy opens the door to the clinic. 

“Fuck off, Blake,” Murphy responds, adjusting his sunglasses and walking over to where he, Clarke, and Raven are already standing gathered around the clinic’s reception counter. “You send a cryptic ass text when no rational person should be awake and just expect me to show? It's not even 10, for Christ's sake. The sun is barely up.” 

Raven rolls her eyes beside him, sliding her coffee cup out of reach when Murphy makes a grab for it while Clarke just smirks, the twinkle he loves so much in her eye. “Missing your beauty sleep, Murphy?” 

“Damn straight,” he responds, turning his attention to Clarke and eyeing her cup instead. She takes a sip, grinning over the lip, and his scowl deeps. Bellamy lets out a sigh and pushes his drink over in offering; he really doesn’t need to add to the pent-up energy inside of him. Murphy takes it eagerly, savoring it with something resembling a smile, and then gestures to Bellamy. “We can’t all look like prince charming with no effort.” 

Clarke snorts, patting Bellamy comfortingly on the arm without looking at him, and he feels some of his nerves dissipate. Last night with his lips against her skin and her body pressed against him, he was able to let go of the all-encompassing pressure of what they are planning to do. For those few hours, there was nothing except for the two of them and the peace they are able to find in each other’s presence. 

They had taken the night to just be, and he’s thankful, but now that it’s time to step out of their bubble of happiness, it’s harder than he thought it would be. Every step closer to this moment has been a challenge. Pulling himself away from her this morning, sending the text to Raven and Murphy, leaving the apartment, it has all felt like he was moving through quicksand. It’s a struggle, but it’s time. 

The weight is back on his shoulders, but it’s not nearly as heavy as it could be. She’s still standing here beside him, and he’s confident that she’s not going anywhere, so it will be okay. They are a team. Together, they can do this even if it seems just as impossible now as when she first suggested it a few nights ago. 

Almost as if she can read his thoughts, Clarke turns to look at him, nudging her shoulder against him as if to say, _okay, let’s do this._ He takes a final deep breath, using the warmth of her arm against his body to ground him, and then starts to explain. “We are going to take down the crime in this city.” 

Murphy lets out a low whistle while Raven’s eyes grow wide in shock. He shifts nervously, waiting for the range of emotions flashing across their faces to settle. Clarke grabs his hand behind the counter, and he squeezes back, giving them the time that they need to process his announcement, even if doing it is slowly killing him. 

“Wow,” Raven mutters eventually, eyeing them skeptically. 

Her companion doesn’t seem to have the same reservations, looking at them with fire and excitement in his eyes. “Ballsy, just how I like it.” 

“When you say crime, what do you mean... or rather who...” Raven half asks them, her eyes flicking over to Clarke and then back to him.

“Dante, Kane, Jaha, my Mom. All of them,” Clarke clarifies before he has the chance to answer, “It’s an all or nothing situation, so we are going with the all option.” 

“Wow,” Raven repeats, still mystified, and Bellamy’s attention instantly snaps back to her. He can see the way tension has settled in her shoulders, the dark look of contemplation in her eyes, and dread fills his stomach. 

“No, Raven, no,” he quickly utters, “Clarke and I are going to do this. That wasn’t an order or even a suggestion. This doesn’t have to be your fight.” 

“But it can be,” Clarke adds on, running her thumb across the back of his hand to combat the grim look he’s sure has fallen over his face. “The truth is that we can use all the help we can get, but it’s not going to be easy or safe, so it has to be your call. Both of yours.” 

“Hell yeah, I’m in,” Murphy says eagerly. “It’s been years coming.”

“Me too,” Raven responds after a moment, firm resolve in her tone instead of excitement. 

“Raven,” he says slowly, and he’s sure that everyone in the room knows that her response wasn’t the one that he wanted to hear. Just because he recognizes that he can’t control the choices that other people make doesn’t mean that he has to be happy about them. Even as he suggested leaving to Clarke the night before, he knew it wasn’t going to happen. Same with Murphy; there’s never been a fight that he didn’t want to join, but Bellamy has harbored a faint hope that Raven would choose the smarter path. 

“Oh, come on,” she says, waving her hand dismissively at him, “when have I ever backed down from a fight? Besides, Murphy’s right—” 

“You can say that again,” the man in question quips, cutting her off and restoring some levity to the tense conversation. 

Raven flicks the side of his head and then continues on as though there was no interruption. “They’ve gotten too big— they have too much power, you can see it all over… it’s just, how?” 

He runs a hand through his hair uncomfortably at Raven’s question, “We haven’t gotten that far yet.” 

“Of course not,” Murphy says, nudging Raven conspiringly. “They needed the brains.” 

“Yeah, that’s definitely what you are,” Bellamy deadpans, trying to fight off a smile. If he had all the options in the world, he wouldn’t pick a different group to be by his side for this. There’s not a lot of people who could joke and laugh while staring down the barrel of a gun. 

“You know you love me,” Murphy snarks back. 

Bellamy is just about to respond back with his own retort when Clarke speaks, valiantly attempting to get them back on topic. “I think whatever it is, it has to happen all at once. We can’t take down Jaha and then move on to my parents because they will just absorb everything, and we’ll be back where we started. Same with Dante.” 

“Okay,” Murphy says, suddenly turning serious. “What about lower-level people? Indra, Emerson, Sidney? Are we just going to leave them be? I don’t think anyone lower will pose a problem. At least not immediately.” 

Clarke looks to him, a question in her eyes, so he answers Murphy even though he doesn’t have the faintest clue either. “I think we have to prioritize the key players and just hope that it trickles down? If they aren’t getting any supply, then no one else will be either.” 

Privately, he adds Cage onto the list of people to go as well. The reality is that there’s probably a Cage in every organization; someone just waiting to seize a power vacuum. He runs his hand across his face already exhausted. 

“If we want to have it all go down at once, we are going to need more—” 

“No,” Bellamy cuts off Murphy's thoughts with a sharp dismissal. “No more people, no one else is going to be involved.” 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but there’s no doubt in his mind that they all can hear the desperation in his tone. No one else is going to die for this cause. He thinks that they are going to leave it at that, hopes that they will, but they aren’t the right group to stop just because he’s uncomfortable. 

There's a soft smile on Clarke’s face when he twists to look at her, but that doesn’t stop her from saying what he knows she has to say. “That’s not necessarily practical, Bellamy.” 

“What it is,” Murphy cuts in, never one to be delicate, “is a bunch of bullshit. People are going to get hurt either way. If we are going to do this, we need to do it quickly, get it done and chop off their heads before they even know what’s hit them or we are all fucked.” 

“Maybe not,” Raven says slowly before he has the chance to take his frustrations out on Murphy. “If we knew where we were targeting, then a series of well-placed explosives could work instead of additional people.” 

“And what about the people who get pissed when their product is blown up?” Murphy asks, turning his own frustration onto Raven.

Instead of looking at Murphy, she turns to look at him and Clarke, “Well, theoretically, if we know who we are targeting— if we could guarantee that they would be in the place we thought they were going to be...” 

“It could all be taken care of at once,” Clarke surmises quietly. 

Looking over at her all he sees is resolve, and that only increases the horror he feels in his gut. He's not a saint, not by any means, and people have definitely died as a result of his actions, both directly and indirectly, but he’s always done his best to limit that. He has never wanted innocent people to be caught in the crossfire, and if they do this the way Raven is suggesting, then he would have to give that up. 

While the people that work in the warehouses that hold the products, the ones who guard and distribute, surely aren’t innocent, he doesn’t think they deserve to die for just doing what they have to in order to survive as is the case with so many people in this line of work. 

Clarke must be able to see some of the unease in his expression because her own hesitance starts to peek through his defenses. He squeezes her hand in apology, not meaning to make her feel guilty for thinking about doing something that they both have already decided needs to be done. She shakes her head though, rejecting the apology, “It’s just one option. We have some time; nothing needs to be decided today.”

*****

After hours of discussion and not a single clear path forward, they end up back at her apartment. He'd be frustrated, or at least more frustrated, if the lack of a plan didn’t mean that the people he cares about were safe from danger for longer. As it is, he falls asleep with relative ease that night, Clarke tucked securely in his arms.

His sleep is peaceful, and his dreams are actually pleasant until a sudden, loud ring jolts him awake. He sits up, his heart beating wildly while Clarke makes similar motions beside him. He grops around in the dark as the last vestiges of sleep fall away and he is finally able to comprehend what he’s hearing; her phone. 

The panic in him starts to disappear, dread settling in its place. Turning to look at the clock on the dresser, Bellamy squints and can just make out the numbers. He runs over his face, trying to further wake himself up as Clarke reaches over to grab her phone. Nothing ever good comes from calls at four in the morning. 

He watches her stare down at the phone in her hand, prompting her only once it’s clear that she’s not going to just answer. “Who is it?”

“My mom,” she responds with no clear emotion in her voice. The phone stops its incessant noise, and they both let out a collective sigh of relief. For now, the danger of whatever lies within that call has passed. “She left a message.” 

They sit in silence for a while, Clarke fiddling with the device in her hands until he isn’t able to resist speaking any longer. Now that he knows that it isn’t Murphy or Raven, Monty or Harper, or God forbid Lincoln calling about something wrong with Octavia, his anxiety has switched to a sort of morbid curiosity. “Are you going to listen?” 

She nods her head in a quick burst, pressing a button and then holding the phone up to her ear without another word. He waits tensely, watching her face for any clue it might give him until finally, she sets the phone back down on the nightstand and turns back to him. “Jaha is dead.” 

There's nothing in her voice to help him determine how she feels. She says it robotically as though she were sharing a random fact and not news that’s supposed to be horrific. It’s not surprising, he knows they didn't have a good relationship, but it leaves him more unsure how he’s supposed to react. He twists to turn the light on to buy himself some time. When he’s back facing her, she has her teeth digging into her lip, so he feels the need to say something. “Are we upset about that?” 

Instead of answering, she just shrugs her shoulders with the same contemplative look on her face. He settles back into the blankets, watching her, sure that she’ll share her thoughts whenever she’s figured them out. It takes a few more minutes, but when she finally lifts her head to look at him, he doesn’t expect the emotion he sees. She looks excited. 

“This is exactly what we need.” 

“For Jaha to die?” he asks uncertainly, still not understanding the sudden shift in her demeanor. 

“No,” she says with a huff that sounds remarkably close to bubbly laughter. “Well, yes. This is how we get the information we need. This is how I can get back in without creating suspicion—” 

“Absolutely not,” he interrupts sharply. Their eyes meet from either side of the bed, looking into each other as tension fills the room and he steadies his resolve. This feels like a test. 

Weeks ago, nearly a month, they sort of fell into this. Before everything happened, they were close to being back here, really no more than one meaningful conversation away, and then when it all _did_ happen, it was too easy to just find comfort in each other. What they had was simple when everything else seemed hard. Having her beside him again at night made sense when nothing else did. 

It seems crazy how quickly they regained their old roles in each other’s life, drawn together like two magnets, but it’s not really. For as angry as he was with her, for all the moments where he told himself that he hated her, he never did. It was easy to go back to caring about her because the truth is that he never really stopped. 

They are here; they are important to each other, and they both know it. If anything, sex the other night only solidified that for him, but they never had to put any true effort into reaching this seemingly perfect place. That’s going to change now, though. He can tell it by the way neither of them has said anything yet, but both of them are twitching anxiously, and surprisingly, he’s okay with it. 

He knows that the way they were going was never going to last; simply existing only works for so long, and really, he wants more than that for them. He’s willing to fight to be with her now. “No, I’m not going to just let you—” 

“Bellamy,” she calls out, not necessarily sharply, but with an edge to it. He holds up his hand, asking her to let him say his piece. She settles back down on the bed, looking at him wearily. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, okay?” he implores her, leaning closer to her. “Of course, I don’t fucking _let_ you do anything. I don’t get to tell you what to do, I know that, but I’m not okay with you going off on your own into a dangerous situation that we know nothing about either, and if that makes me overbearing, I’ll be overbearing. What I’m not going to do is sit here and say nothing. We are supposed to be a team now, which means that if you are matching into the dragon nest, I want to be there beside you.” 

She’s got a smile on her face by the time he’s finished his speech and it makes him feel even better. “I know. I didn’t say that right. What I meant was that it’s the perfect opportunity for _us_ to get the information we are looking for. We are a team, Bellamy; I’m not looking to change that. Not now, not ever.”

A wave of peace settles over him. Finally, they are closer to defining this thing between them that has been ambiguous for far too long. As Clarke rests her hand on his knee, though, confusion lingers in the back of his mind. He vividly remembers her insistence at Wells’ funeral that she needed to do it alone and then later, her confession that it was all to keep him away from her family.

Or rather, to keep her family away from him and his. She had said in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want him on their radar. He didn’t think that she was ever going to change her mind about that, and he’d accepted it, understood it even. Over the last few months, he’s seen what they are willing to do to their own daughter, so he can’t imagine what they might want to do to him. 

“Okay, that’s good to know,” he responds with a soft smile, “but I thought you didn’t want your parents knowing about me... I’m good with it if you are, but...” 

She bites her lip, looking away from him. “They already know about you. You remember the first night that I came back to the apartment? The night that Jasper introduced us to Maya… remember how I brought Lincoln?” 

“Yes,” he answers, memories tugging at the back of his mind. “I was surprised that you wanted to bring him. I asked him about it, but he didn’t know what prompted the change. Or he wasn’t willing to tell me anyway.” 

“He didn’t know. I didn’t want to bother him with it if I was wrong, and then after, I didn’t even think to tell you when I told him. I realized a couple days before that gathering that I had another tail on me.” He lets out a low curse, annoyed at them again on her behalf, and her grimace deepens. “Yeah. I don’t think they were there for long, and they definitely know better than to follow me now, but I also wasn’t really checking for it back then.” 

“They would have seen me outside the clinic,” Bellamy realizes uncomfortably. 

“I don’t know for sure, but probably,” she agrees reluctantly. “Even if they didn’t see you there, the fact they didn’t trust Lincoln as a source any more means that they were probably monitoring me in other ways before that. It was nearly a year. I was stupid for thinking I'd be able to keep you under the radar from them for that long. I shouldn’t have just believed that they would leave me alone.” 

Sliding across the bed, he moves closer to her until he can pull her into a half hug. “You weren’t stupid. You were trusting, and fuck them for taking advantage of that.” 

“Keep that attitude up, and you’re sure to be a hit with them,” she responds with a huff of laughter, leaning into his side. 

“Oh, I’m sure they are going to _love_ me,” he starts before cutting off in horror, “Wait, you don’t think that’s how— with Jasper and Maya— how they knew where she was?” 

“No,” Clarke says instantly, pulling back to look at him, but he can tell from the shadows in her eyes that it’s not a new suggestion to her. “I thought about it, but no. I caught them days before that, and trust me, they knew not to come back. Besides, I was super aware of my surroundings at that point, I would have noticed a tail. Lincoln would have too.” 

He lets out a sigh of relief that he feels her mimic as soon as she’s back leaning against him. “Okay, that’s good. I’m glad…. it’s probably going to be hard enough being around them without that whole other layer.” 

“You know you don’t have to come with me,” she says softly. “I would be fine on my own.” 

“I want to be there,” he reassures her, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “That was the deal, right? We take this all down together.” 

She looks up at him with a tentative grin on her face, “I seem to remember something about that.” 

As he leans in to kiss her, though, the smile grows sure. It’s not going to be easy; he knows that. Not for him and certainly not for her, but if the last year has taught him anything, it is that they are always stronger when they work together.

*****

Nothing ever works out quite the way he expects it to. At this point, he shouldn’t allow it to bother him, but as he frantically tries to rearrange his hair into some form of order in the rearview mirror of his truck a few days later, the bitterness threatens to consume him. Or maybe that’s just the nerves.

He gives his hair one final pat, readjusts his tie, and then opens the door, knowing that there is no point delaying any longer. In all likelihood, he would have been nervous walking into this regardless of the circumstances leading up to the moment, it’s a big deal for a variety of reasons. He knows, though, that he would have felt more confident if Clarke was here beside him to fix his tie, and the fact that she isn’t when she should be just makes everything worse. 

Over the last few days, they haven’t spent more than a couple minutes apart, all of their time going to coming up with a plan and preparing him to fit in. Hell, in the last month, they have only been separated for mere hours at a time. Today, though, right as they were about to pull themselves out of bed and start getting ready, Miller had called him frantically, going on about water damage and shitty pipes.

Apparently, their old hangout had sprung a leak sometime during the night and was in desperate need of attention. A job which somehow went to Miller because, of course, the owner called Bryan even though he graduated from the academy years ago and moved on from his job there. Standing in a puddle of water, Miller told him that he needed his help, so Bellamy had kissed Clarke, promised to be as fast as he could, and then walked out the door. 

He left without a second of hesitation because the Millers have always been good to him, the younger one especially. Miller has been the kind of friend to him that people dream of having, there whenever he needs him, but not offended when he disappears. They aren’t as close as they once were; they don’t see each other as much, especially not since he cut back working, and yet, he still knows that Miller would show up as soon as he needed something. 

So even though the delay was annoying and he really could have done without changing into his suit in a dingy bar, he thinks that it was probably helpful too. That kind of loyalty, the kind between him and Miller, him and Raven, even him and Murphy, born out of continuously showing up even when it’s not always convenient, is what he can’t help but feel like many of the people filing into the church in front of him are lacking. 

Someone at the door hands him a booklet, not even blinking an eye when Bellamy continues inside with a muttered thanks. He'd wondered if it was going to be a problem, him arriving without Clarke, but apparently, it isn’t necessary to have actually met the man to go to his funeral. 

It seems ridiculous to him, the idea that strangers would be welcomed at his funeral, but then he walks through the door, and it all makes sense. Lines and lines of pews stretch out before him, so many that he can’t imagine them all ever being filled by casual acquaintances, let alone actual friends. The ceiling looms dozens and dozens of feet above him while stained glass windows line the walls creating an almost magical glow to the air around him. 

The space is breathtakingly beautiful. Too beautiful, he thinks, to be honoring a man that he’s not sure actually had any honor. 

Looking around the masses of people, he tries to spot Clarke with no success and the cloud of despair, which had been abated by the busyness of the morning, finally finds him. It's not even remotely similar to Jasper’s funeral, even further from his Mom’s, but he still feels the pain of them echoing around him. 

Black outfit after black outfit passes by him, and he has to fight off the urge to run. To scream. There's been too much death, too much meaningless death. It has to stop. He's going to make sure that it stops. The clear resolution, repeated like a mantra in his head, works to calm the storm inside of him until he finally spots Clarke walking towards him. Dressed, of course, in black. 

Tonight, when she takes that dress off, he’s going to take it and burn it, he promises himself. This is it, the last time she will wear it. There will be no more funerals, not for people they love or for people they can’t stand; he can’t take anyone. He wants to see her walking towards him in white lace and not black silk. No more black; no more death. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers fervently, taking his arm, “I was here, but then there were people and issues the moment that I stepped through the door. Everything was overwhelming, so I went back out to hide in the car until it started and lost track of time out there.” 

She doesn’t lose the perfect smile once while she talks, but Bellamy can practically feel the tension rolling off her, so he doesn’t complain, doesn’t tell her how awful it was standing here without her, feeling like a pebble amongst pearls. Instead, he just grabs her hand, squeezing once reassuringly. “It’s fine, I only beat you by a moment.”

“A moment can feel like a lifetime here, trust me, I know,” she responds, her tight smile turning into a grin. For a second, it seems like _his_ Clarke is back beside him despite the unfamiliar place, but then a shadow falls over them, and the pleasant expression once again turns forced. 

“Clarke.” He turns around to see Abby standing behind him in a sleek black dress and a strand of sparkly white pearls around her neck. Her countenance is just as manufactured as the one Clarke is sporting, but underneath it, he thinks he can see some genuine surprise. “I didn’t think you were going to come.” 

“I wasn’t sure that I was going to,” she responds, the exact right amount of careful hesitance in her voice. “But then I thought about what you were saying about Wells and Theo... and I don’t want that for us. Life is precious; we shouldn’t waste what time we do have.” 

If it weren’t for the nail marks he’s sure he will find on his arm later, he’d think that she was totally earnest in her explanation. Abby definitely appears to buy it. Her eyes don’t soften, nor does her smile turn genuine as he’d expect from a loving mother, but there’s an air of self-satisfaction to her which tells Bellamy that Clarke passed whatever test that was long before Abby responds, “I’m glad to hear it.” 

He can feel Clarke’s irritation as she takes an extra second to answer, probably needing the moment to stop herself from snapping something sarcastic. He considers saying something, just to give her a bit more time, but someone on the stage interviews for him. 

“If everyone could take their seats, we will start in a few minutes.” 

“We are having dinner later tonight, just those who were close to Theo, a remembrance of sorts. It would be nice to see you there... both of you,” Abby adds on after a second of hesitation, her eyes finally moving to study him. Her painted lips press into a thin line, but otherwise, she keeps her derogatory comments to herself. “You must be Bellamy.” 

It doesn’t escape his notice that she uses his name as though Clarke has mentioned him countless times when he knows for a fact that no such conversation has ever passed between them. It's undoubtedly a message to her daughter, but two can play at that game. 

He offers her his hand, determined to win whatever this is, if not for himself than for Clarke who’s turned to ice at his side. “Yes. It’s nice to meet you. Clarke has told me _all_ about you.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” she somehow manages to force out to his enjoyment. Clarke’s too, he can’t help but think. “I look forward to getting to know you better later...” 

Clarke answers the half-asked question with practiced ease. “We’ll be there.” 

“Perfect,” Abby responds, clearly pleased. “I better go, but I’ll see you then.” 

_Perfect indeed,_ he thinks as Clarke leads them to their seats. Now it starts.


	17. My true love, my whole heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you to everyone who commented, I was rather nervous coming back after disappearing like that and you all were so lovely. One of my new year's resolutions is to be better about responding to comments so I'll get to that hopefully in a few days, but for now, here's a new chapter; it's one of my favorites.

Clarke offers to let him drive when they finally get out of the service, perhaps thinking that he would benefit from the control, but he turns her down, and he’s thankful for it as they round the exit to her childhood neighborhood. This part of town has always existed for him, but it never seemed real. It was a fantasy land like Narnia or Hogwarts, where life wasn’t a struggle. Where parents stayed, and little sisters always had enough to eat. 

When he was young, he dreamed of being part of it. Those dreams disappeared by the time he buried his Mom though, only to be replaced with bitterness for what all the houses on the top of the hill represented. Now, he doesn’t know how to feel. He still hates them, but it’s not as visceral as it once was. As for longing to be a part of that world, he’d say no, hell no, if not for the woman sitting across from him, navigating the streets with practiced ease.

He doesn’t care to be part of their world, but he desperately wants to stay a part of hers, and whether either of them likes it, she comes from here. He knows that more surely now than he ever has. It’s there in the way she doesn’t blink at having to stop at a gate, how her eyes don’t grow wide when they approach the house, big enough to fit nearly his entire apartment building, and the comfort with which she hands her coat off to the man at the door. 

She takes his hand in the hallway as they walk towards the voices, offering him a squeeze of encouragement that’s better than anything she might have said. The gesture is a statement, one that’s abundantly clear once they enter the room full of guests and her mom’s eyes instantly zero in on them. She introduces him to everyone as Clarke’s boyfriend, a term that has him smiling at Clarke in a manner that is totally inappropriate for what they are attempting to do here. 

As the meal progresses, he’s thankful for the time Clarke took to prep him for this. He knows that Sidney is Kane’s go-to for everything he doesn’t care to do, and that person for Sidney is Shumway. He was able to recognize Lieutenant Graco sitting starchily in the corner, the only holder still from before the previous regime. 

When Becca Franco makes conversation with him across the table, he can keep up, knowing that while she might not be exactly part of the organization, she and Jaha bonded at some retreat decades ago and that she’s been known to help them out occasionally. He knows to nod politely at Cuyler Ridley and laugh at Wick’s jokes. 

No one talks much with Dax, Bre, or Sterling, the three street kids who Jaha took under his wing, and Bellamy knows not to deviate from that pattern. Apparently, Jaha used them for the jobs that no one else sitting at the table wanted to do. There used to be four of them, another boy. Clarke wasn’t sure what happened to him. Throughout her childhood, the names and faces of that group changed, but the feel of them always stayed the same. 

Altogether, he thinks he’s doing okay even if her hand on his knee is the only thing keeping him from feeling like he’s drowning, acting like an anchor keeping him tethered amidst an unfamiliar storm. An anchor, though, can only be enough for so long. When they finish up the last course, and everyone agrees to retire to the living room, he makes his escape, leaving Clarke with a kiss to her hair and a whispered promise to return shortly. 

He navigates the maze of halls with no clear destination in mind, trying and failing to come to terms with the opulent wealth dripping from every surface of the house. There’s a persistent itch under his skin, a familiar one that he thought he had rid himself of years ago, which speaks of resentment and inadequacy. With every second in this place, the belt around his chest tightens, making it more and more impossible to breathe. 

If it was for anything else, anyone else, he’s sure he would have left hours ago. As it is, he just exits through the first door outside. Taking a deep breath of fresh air while his hands grip the metal fence of the balcony so tightly his knuckles turn white. In and out, he breathes, looking out over the city. It looks so peaceful from here, an array of bright lights, shining like stars rather than the chaos that he knows those streets actually hold. 

“It can get overwhelming at times can’t it.” Bellamy looks behind him and sees Kane with carefully crafted compassion written plainly across his face, walking towards him. 

“Oh no, it’s not,” Bellamy starts before stopping when Kane smiles at him understandingly. _What is he playing at?_ Bellamy wonders, taking in the man before him. Over the last few hours, he’s confirmed what he’d always been told, that Kane is smooth and confident, working the room with ease. _So why is he trying to pretend otherwise now? What is he doing out here?_

Kane’s smile grows, sending a shiver down Bellamy’s back. “It is. I still remember what it was like when I first stepped into one of these houses— mansions, more like. They could have fit the entire block where I grew up in the yard alone.” 

He waits patiently for Bellamy to respond, moving past the door to rest against the railing opposite him. As Kane settles himself comfortably, losing the rigid posture, Bellamy watches on warily, analyzing the situation. The compassion, the understanding, the story that was alarmingly similar to his thoughts driving up. For some reason, Kane wants him to feel at ease around him. 

_Why though?_ The question lingers in Bellamy’s mind even as a plan starts to form in his head. He’s undoubtedly being played, there’s no genuine reason for Kane to come out to talk to him, Bellamy knows that, but he can use that to his and Clarke’s advantage. They figured that this was primarily going to be Clarke’s mission while he hung around as support and back up. If Kane wants to pretend to be his friend, though, maybe he’ll be able to get some information all on his own. 

Letting out a purposefully reluctant sigh, Bellamy messes with his hair in a way that he’s avoided doing all night. He can definitely play the overwhelmed outsider boyfriend if that’s who he needs to play. “It’s just... a lot. The people, the food... everything.” 

“It’s understandable,” Kane nods his head sympathetically, and Bellamy has to work to not show the flash of annoyance that passes through him. It _is_ understandable; this isn’t his world, and really, how the fuck is he supposed to know which is the right fork to eat with, but the way that he utters the phrase infers that he doesn’t belong here. 

He bites back that irritation, though. He doesn’t need this man’s approval; he just needs him to think he needs it. The various levels of deception, all layered together with unwelcome truths, fly around in Bellamy’s head forebodingly, but he pushes the concern aside hastily. Kane is watching him expectantly, and he’s not going to throw this opportunity away for some doubts. Not when he knows that his insecurities about this all are ridiculous.

“Yeah,” Bellamy finally responds, not quite looking him in the eye. “It’s just all so different.” 

“Exactly,” Kane answers encouragingly like he’s surprised that he was able to deduce the reason for the unease, and it takes everything within Bellamy to keep his smartass remark to himself. “It will get easier the more time you spend here. It never goes away completely; some aspects of this lifestyle are still shocking to me 30 years later, but it’s all more than worth it in the end.” 

There's a strange glimmer in the man’s eye as he trails off that Bellamy can’t quite define. It's not wistfulness, it can’t be when Bellamy is sure that Kane’s achieved even his most outlandish dreams, living up here on the hill, but it’s not true satisfaction either. Unable to decide and not willing to let the silence go on any longer, Bellamy gives his best non-answer. “I am sure it is.” 

“Clarke must be pleased that you’re here,” Kane says, coming back to himself and turning to look at Bellamy, the sparkle in his eye totally recognizable now. Casually, he slides his hands out of sight before allowing himself to ball them into fists. He can pretend to be something he’s not for a greater purpose, but he doubts he will be able to convincingly keep his temper if Kane is going to involve Clarke. After all the shit they have pulled, neither he nor Abby have the right to even say her name as far as he’s concerned. “Family, legacy, it’s important here. You’ll learn that quickly.” 

“Family has always been important to me,” Bellamy tells him with more of an edge to his voice than is probably advisable, but Kane just seems delighted. 

“Perfect. Really, I’d expect nothing less from the first person who Clarke decided to bring home,” Kane shares like it’s some kind of honored position being here. Which it is. Bellamy is honored that Clarke felt she could bring him here with her, but it has nothing to do with anything Kane is thinking. He’s happy because he’s here with Clarke. Without her, he would have bolted for the door hours ago. 

The sound of heels tapping against the floor echo from down the hall, growing in volume, and for one hopeful second, he thinks that Clarke is going to come to save him from this increasingly awkward conversation, but then Abby rounds the corner. Of course, she does.

“Marcus, there you are. What are you doing out here? Our guests are leaving.” Kane takes the berating easily, gesturing to Bellamy, hidden by the wall, instead of answering. Abby looks him up and down, the annoyance on her face growing. “Bellamy.” 

He tips his head in greeting but otherwise says nothing. He can fake it for Kane, pretend to enjoy the man’s presence, but not for Abby. The most she is going to get is tolerance in the form of forced politeness. Maybe, he would try for more if not for Clarke’s red cheek flashing across his eyes every time that he looked at her.

She doesn’t say anything either, glowering at him with barely concealed hostility, so it is up to Kane to cut through the growing tension. “Sorry honey, we must have lost track of time out here talking.” 

“It’s alright.” Abby responds, turning her attention back to Kane with one last glare in his direction. “I just wanted to give you the option to say goodbye before everyone left.” 

“Okay, I’m coming,” Kane says, pushing himself away from the railing and smiling at his wife. “Although, I’m sure you could usher them off beautifully without my assistance.” 

Something passes between the pair, something intimate that he never would have expected from them, and he starts to feel uncomfortable like he’s intruding. He shifts his weight slightly, wondering if he could just slip out unnoticed. His movement must alert Abby to his presence, though, because she turns back to him with a razor-sharp gaze. “It’s getting late.” 

“I should probably go,” he offers, taking the hint gracefully. He’s had more than his fill of this place. His steps are halted by Kane’s voice though. _So close._

“Come on now, what’s the rush, you and Clarke should stay the night,” Kane says to him while looking at Abby. Another look passes between them, no clearer to him than the last time, but there must be something of importance because Abby’s hostility towards him suddenly lessens dramatically. 

She looks him over, looks back at Kane, and then nods her head slightly. “Yes, you two should stay. Clarke’s room is still made up.” 

His eyes fly between the two of them, unsure of what to say. Within a few short minutes, her whole demeanor seems to have softened. He doesn’t believe that it’s genuine, not in the slightest, but somehow Kane must have conveyed to her that... he’s worth keeping around? That he’s the weak link between the two of them? He doesn’t have a fucking clue; he wasn’t designed to play these mind games. 

Luckily, he is saved from having to either accept or reject the invitation by Clarke’s arrival. 

“There you are!” she calls out from the hall, presumably speaking to her mother. When she steps out onto the balcony, she appears just as gracefully put together as she did when he left her, but he can see the strain of the last few hours in the way she moves towards them stiffly, measuring her words before she shares them. “Everyone else is gone. They got tired of waiting.” 

He lets out an amused huff at her inability to fully keep control of her tongue before quickly covering it with a cough, but like with her mom, it’s enough to draw her eyes to him. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does he as she moves over to snuggle into his side, her smile noticeably less fake, but the relief he sees on her face is reflected within him.

“I apologize. I was just getting more acquainted with Bellamy and we lost track of time,” Kane tells Clarke with a polished smile. “We were just saying that you two could stay the night.” 

Clarke’s shoulders tense under his arm, but before she can get any objections out, Abby starts talking, sounding more earnest than he thought possible. “It would be great. It's been so long since we’ve really seen you Clarke, and this way you could have breakfast with us before you are on your way in the morning.” 

Looking up at him, Clarke stalls giving an answer. He's sure that she can see the reluctance he’s trying to mask, but he doesn’t really believe she would have had to look at him to know that. He doesn’t want to be here. Hell, she doesn’t want to be here either. That's not really the point though. They are here to establish a relationship with the two waiting eagerly for an answer across from them, and this would just be another step forward in that agenda. 

Bellamy can already see the realization in her eyes that this is something that they have to do, but he nods his head in agreeance anyways, continuing to play the part. She presses her hand against his back comfortingly and then turns to her mother, fake smile back firmly in place. “We’d love to stay.”

*****

Of course, even though the idea of staying over is sold to them with the notion that they will be free to disappear to Clarke’s room unbothered, they still insist that he and Clarke come to see the new gardens with them. Clarke tries to get them out of it, she really does, but apparently, the dusky lighting is just _perfect_ so he takes her hand in his and follows Abby who’s already leading the way.

Despite his best intentions, he only lasts 15 minutes and two possibly harmless, but more likely pointed, digs about his background before he starts to get twitchy. Another 15 minutes, and way too many different types of exotic flowers later, Clarke takes pity on him. 

When Kane starts leading them back into the living room, she pauses in the hallway pointing him in the direction of her room. He makes some halfhearted objections to abandoning her, but when she kisses him on the cheek and starts walking after them, he lets her go. He knows himself, knows his temper and his limits, and the last thing they need right now is him blowing it all because he can’t take one more thinly veiled racist remark. 

He finds his way to her room with little difficulty, following her instructions closely until he’s opening a set of double doors to a bedroom that is nearly the size of the entire living space of his apartment. He takes in the space, the neatly pressed bedspread, the delicate jewelry on the vanity, the artfully fluffed pillow on the hard-looking chair by the window, trying to find pieces of his Clarke. He looks and looks, but he can’t find anything. 

It would be easy to dismiss, to decide that it doesn’t look like her because she hasn’t existed here for more than a few nights at a time in years. He’d probably feel more comfortable if he did that, and he’s sure that’s part of the reason, but the reality is that this part of her life is very real and just as valid. She grew up in this room, it was her place for a long time, and at least some of these details must have been of her choosing. 

She doesn’t fit in here, not in the way she should, but she’s also not completely different in the way he’s often deluded himself into thinking. He saw that first-hand tonight with how she was able to mingle between everyone flawlessly. She’s charming when she wants to be, in a manipulative sort of way; she’s got a knack for bending people to her will. 

While he knows that a lot of it was an act tonight, there were moments when she was talking to Jackson or debating with Sidney that he felt like she was genuinely enjoying herself. She was in her element just as much as when she’s with someone at the clinic or snarking back and forth with Murphy. This is who she is as much as everything else. 

Months ago, even weeks, the realization might have sent him running, but now, all it does is fill him with peace because she has decided that it’s okay for him to see this part of her. For him to see every part of her. 

“Hey, sorry,” she says opening the door, ““I tried to just say goodnight to them, but of course, they couldn’t just let me go. They needed to—” 

“I love you.” 

It’s not what he intended to say, but he finds he doesn’t regret whatever sentimental impulse it was that made it happen. He loves her, all of her; the compassion she has for people, the strength with which she meets threats. Her stubbornness and her loyalty. He loves her and she should know it. 

“Wait, really?” she asks, stopping short as a grin spreads across her face. 

He can only laugh at her incredulous expression. “Come on, it can’t be that surprising. I think everyone else called it nearly a year ago.” 

“No, not surprising,” she says, walking over to him where he stands at the end of her bed. “I just didn’t expect you to say it so soon... not after everything that happened.” 

Shrugging, he stares back at her curiously. She doesn’t look apprehensive. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are sparkling. She looks happy in every sense of the word, but still, the confession did come out of nowhere. “I haven’t scared you off, have I?” 

“Nah. It’s going to take more than that to get rid of me,” she responds, matching his teasing tone. She must be able to sense, though, that his question had some genuine worry behind it because she takes one more step forward, resting a hand on his arm. “It was unexpectedly perfect just like everything else so far, and for the record, because I don’t want there to be any doubts, I love you too.” 

“That’s got a nice ring to it,” he says, before pulling her closer to press his lips against hers. She leans into him, her mouth stretched into a smile, and promptly loses her balance, falling onto the bed and taking him with her. Any attempt at continuing the kiss becomes impossible after that as a laugh busts out of her, but he’s more than okay with having her wrapped around her laughing instead. 

“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve almost said it over the last few months. More than that, almost an entire year,” she tells him once both of them have quieted, settling down comfortably on his shoulder. 

“Oh, I definitely would,” he answers back with a laugh, thinking about all the times he has forcefully stopped himself from even thinking the word love. He hesitates for a second, not sure if he wants to ruin the bubble of joy around them. 

“Uh oh,” she half teases, reading his face. “Please tell me that didn’t just happen because you’re going to go do something stupid. I won’t accept it then.” 

He presses a kiss into her hair, feeling slightly bad for worrying her, but also relieved that he doesn’t have to make the choice to share by himself. “No, that’s exactly why, though. I don’t want to wait to say it and not get the chance.” 

“Bellamy.” She lifts herself up on her elbow so that she’s staring down at him fiercely. “You do not get to die on me.” 

“I’m not planning on it,” he tries to joke, running a hand over his face when he hears how flatly it lands. “We just don’t— with everything, there are no—” 

She grabs his hand tightly, pulling it back so he can see her face. “You are not going to die. Promise me.” 

“Clarke...” 

“No,” she says resolutely. “We are going to finish and leave. We’ll have a couple kids or maybe more because I know you’ll be a great dad and a cozy little house with a room filled with books. I’ll open up a new clinic, you can go back to school and teach or maybe build houses, I don’t know, but whatever it is, it will be great. And we are going to get it.” 

He wants to object, to remind her of all the people they have lost, but he can see that she already knows. He can see it in the glassiness of her eyes, hear it in the desperation of her voice. She knows that it’s a promise he can’t make and yet, she is still asking him. 

Letting out a sigh, he pulls her closer. Instead of offering her a vow which they both know is fallible, he gives her what he knows he can at the moment. “I love you, Clarke, and I promise that will never change.”

*****

By the time they are walking back to the car that morning, the sun much higher in the sky than he would have preferred, Bellamy is confident that they will actually be able to do this. Staying over the night seems to have had the desired effect, giving them the opportunity that they needed to firmly establish themselves within the lives of the two leaders.

They are both invited back for lunch next weekend, an event which has every indication of becoming a regular thing while Abby convinces a masterly resistant Clarke to attend a conference with her during the week and Kane invites him out to dinner with some colleagues the following week. It's everything they wanted even if they both approach each occasion with dread. 

The pattern continues, and before he knows it, both of their schedules are filled with lunches, meetings, and events. They aren’t in yet; Kane still treats him as though he has the potential to be something rather than actually being it, and Abby has enough history with Clarke’s rejection of the world to not be sharing family secrets easily. They aren’t in, but they are getting closer each and every day.

Three weeks later and if Bellamy didn’t already suspect things were happening behind the scenes, he’d be certain of it. There's mistrust among the higher-ups of the organization, between those who sat at the table the day of Jaha’s funeral. Neither Kane nor Abby says anything specific, but he can tell, and so can Clarke. It's there in the way they change topics when other people are around, the tone in their voices when they do talk to others, and the way they seem to share meaningful glances with each other after. 

For him, the notion of mistrust isn’t that surprising. He's spent well over a month regularly around these people, enough time to be at least semi-comfortable playing his role, and in that time, he’s realized that everyone else is also just playing a role. The smiles are fake in the way he always expected, the conversation forced and pointed. Clarke agrees that it’s the way it’s always been, but insists that there’s something deeper to it, and he’s inclined to trust her judgment on this; it is her show here after all. 

Sitting on the counter opposite him, she explains with only the slightest bit of hesitance about the way the organization has always functioned. “There’s a level of loyalty, a code, nothing would work without one. So yes, people are overly polite and always looking for an edge up, but years ago, back when I was still involved, I never would have considered the possibility of Diana and Shumway or even someone like Dax could pose a threat.” 

Her mouth sets into a grim line, and he is once again hit with a wave of worry. On the outside, she doesn’t look that different, but he can see the toll this has all taken on her. While she still reaches out for his hand easily, the light has dimmed in her eyes, and the rigidity to her posture that at the start only came when she was in the presence of her mom, now seems to never go away. “Are you worried?” 

“For my Mom and Kane? Or for Diana and all of them?” she asks, smiling at him tiredly. He just shrugs, there are a lot of things to worry about. She looks down at her hands, thinking about her answer. “Not about anyone specifically, but any kind of division is messy. The system is flawed and needs to go, but at least when it’s in place, we know what we need to dismantle. If everything starts to fall apart...” 

She trails off, but he understands her perfectly; they need to hurry up, to finish what they started before the tension brewing blows. Not just because it will make their lives harder, but to prevent the fallout of it all. Fallout, he realizes, that has already started descending. He thinks about Jaha. So far, the only real information that they’ve found was that his death was no accident. 

He steps forward until he’s in her space, meeting her eyes when she finally looks up at him. He’s not really concerned about her losing herself in all of this, he’s past believing that life is that simple and that this coldness wasn’t just already there, but he’s worried about how much taking this all on is costing her. She left this life, walked away, mostly because of external circumstances. He can’t help but think, though, that she also left because she doesn’t like the person being around this life turns her into. 

They need to finish this, for everyone else, but mostly for her. So that she can walk away still confident in who she is and happy with that person. 

Fortunately, that opportunity arises within the weeks of their conversation. Abby mentions a gala at their Sunday lunch; a last-minute event that she’s going to host to support some charity that’s in desperate need of funds. Everyone is going to be there, the most important members of their organization, those that matter from the Wallace empire, even a few guests from out of town, and she’d like it to serve as his and Clarke's formal introduction as part of the family business. 

Looking across the table, he catches Clarke’s eye; she grins at him. This is perfect. Not only are they in, but they also won’t even have to wait for an opportunity to look for the information they want. With the house filled with people, Clarke and he will be able to explore the place freely, look in the rooms they have hesitated examining up until now, and find the information they need about Abby and Kane. 

They will be able to mingle, talk with the members of Dante’s organization. With some luck, maybe they will start to understand how it operates. If they can find that, they will be able to get an idea of how to dismantle it all. He lets out a sigh of relief the minute they are out of the house. A few more weeks and this should all be over.


	18. Seasons are changing and waves are crashing

Two weeks later, Bellamy tugs at the tie wrapped around his neck, still unaccustomed to the feeling despite the unfortunate regularity with which he’s had to wear one over the last couple of months. He’s normally better about fighting off the nervous ticks, and he will be once they are surrounded by people, but for now, he lets his anxiety show itself plainly. 

He paces back and forth across the room, trying to get a handle on himself. He shouldn’t be this unsettled; he’s been here before countless times. He’s played the game and played it successfully around the majority of these people already. There’s no need for nerves, and yet, even as he thinks about it, he knows that this is quite unlike anything else he’s done before. 

This is it. This is their chance, and while he still has enough common sense to realize that it isn’t their _only_ chance, he doesn’t want to waste the opportunity. He wants to be done. Needs to be done, and so does Clarke. For that to happen, though, this needs to go well. 

Messing with the buttons on his shirt, he pauses to listen to the sounds of the party getting started coming from below him. When he arrived here an hour ago expecting to find Clarke in the process of getting ready, he had instead been ushered into this random room, given an outfit to change into, and told to wait. Kane had popped in about fifteen minutes ago to let him know Clarke was nearly ready and that she’d come to get him when it was time. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, opening the door in a rush. “Sorry, I kept getting delayed, which at first seemed understandable, but by the time I was changing my shoes for the fourth time, I realized it was totally purposeful. I think Mom wants to make our entrance into a spectacle because why not.” 

She rolls her eyes as she walks towards him, the blue of her dress shimmering as she moves, making no effort to hide her annoyance. He feels his panic start to abate the closer she gets to him, amusement and fondness overriding everything else when she pauses hastily to lift the fabric off the ground so as not to trip. 

“Of course, she wants an entrance; her only daughter has finally accepted her proper place within the family. The prodigal daughter has returned.” 

“Well, she’d much rather be sitting on the floor with her shoes off and take-out in her lap,” Clarke responds exasperated, but he can see the smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she stops in front of him. The smile starts to slip, however, as she reaches up to fix his tie. “We can do this, right?” 

The slight tremble of her hands betrays the nerves that her question only hinted at. Bellamy pulls her into a hug, ignoring her faint protests that they need to hurry up. His fingers trace along the step of her dress as he tries to figure out what to say. Throughout this all, she's been so confident. Maybe she’s felt like she has to be since he’s been more than a bit of a mess. 

“We can,” he tells her, surprised to find how much he means it. They have a plan, a good plan. They will play Abby’s game, smile, and say all the right things. Then, when she’s satisfied, they will divide and conquer, talking to as many people as possible and learning everything they can. Through it all, though, they will watch for the right moment to slip away and finally check out the office that neither of them has dared to approach before now. 

When that moment comes, Raven worked up a device to loop the cameras for them. It's the perfect opportunity with so many people around, ready to take the blame if the interference happens to be noticed. It's going to work. They have planned it all out, thought of every potential issue, and worked through it. They are ready. 

He can see the same sureness settle in Clarke’s eye as she watches him. “We can.” 

She takes his hand, and they walk down the stairs and into the party together. It’s exactly like they both predicted it would be, everyone turns to look at them while Abby watches on grinning, but they take it in stride. He greets Abby with a warm hug as though he hadn’t seen her mere hours ago and accepts Kane’s firm handshake with all the manufactured honor that the situation dictates. 

They smile as they are introduced to the Lightbourne family from out of town, even if Clarke has to grab onto his arm tightly when their daughter makes a snarky remark to stop herself from saying something inappropriate. She returns the favor a few minutes later, though, when Cage appears in front of them, a sleazy smirk on his face as he takes in the pair of them, stepping up beside him quickly and taking his hand before he is overcome with the urge to punch the smug bastard in the nose again. 

After that, they separated, each working the room in their own way to gather information. He talks to countless people, losing himself in the mission until suddenly, nearly an hour has passed. Looking up, he catches sight of Clarke across the hall, the light from the setting sun shining through the window creating an unearthly glow to her, illuminating the delicate curve of her neck and the softness of her skin. 

His breath catches in his throat as he watches her, and he is instantly reminded that he never remarked on her splendor earlier, too distracted by everything else to vocalize his thoughts. He walks over to her with no regard for how rude he might appear to the couple he was talking to, confident that they have no useful information and intent on rectifying his error. 

“You look beautiful,” he whispers into her ear, sliding up beside her and wrapping an arm around her waist. She twists to face him, a shy smile on her face and he feels the happiness inside him grow. It’s all going to work out; he didn’t find out everything, but he didn’t expect to. He has some names, a couple of possible locations, and that’s enough for the moment. Especially when she’s here looking at him like that. 

“I look like a bad imitation of a Barbie doll,” she deadpans, but a grin quickly overtakes her stern expression when he lets out a huff of laughter. She’s not completely wrong. Her dress is puffy in a way that seems totally impractical, and there’s so much makeup on her that he’s not able to see even a hint of her natural skin color. Her eyes sparkle, though, and her lips twitch in amusement in a way that is so inherently Clarke that he knows the truth behind his statement stands. 

“The most beautiful Barbie imitator I’ve ever seen.” 

She rolls her eyes fondly at him as he steps away, but she’s still smiling, and there’s a happy glimmer behind her exasperation, which tells him that he made his point. A point that he can’t but think was important to make. For all the confidence she appears to have, even the confidence that he knows she does have, she is always hesitant to accept a compliment, to believe that she’s as amazing as he tells her. 

It’s an unfortunate reality, which he has vowed to change, one moment at a time until finally, she is able to see herself the way that he sees her. He stretches his hand out to her in invitation, struck with sudden inspiration. “Come dance with me.” 

“You dance?” she questions with a grin, even as she takes hold of his hand and starts walking towards the dance floor. 

He wraps an arm around her waist and does his best impersonation of someone who has done this before, swaying back and forth to the music. “With you? Definitely.” 

She presses her face into his shoulder in a way that he’s sure isn’t considered appropriate, which just makes the move that much better. Every time she losses the formality that at times seems totally engrained in her some days now, he rejoices. 

When she pulls back to look at him, cheeks tinted pink in a way that is so much more endearing than whatever color the makeup artist put on her earlier, he doesn’t have to force the smile on his face in the slightest. “You’re such a sap. I don’t know how you ever thought you could convince me otherwise.” 

“I have a perfectly logical reason for dancing with you,” he responds in mock irritation. “It’s the best way to scoop out an entire room covertly.” 

“Uh-huh, I’m sure that’s it,” she says with a teasing grin as they spin again, “Do you have experience with this type of endeavor that I don’t know about?” 

“It always seems to work in the movies,” he admits after a moment, losing the ability to stay serious when she lets out another surprised laugh. 

The next song starts, and they stay on the dance floor, swaying back and forth amongst the other couples. He still enjoys having her in his arms as much as the first dance, but now, he also forces himself to do what he said and use the opportunity to look around. The room is crowded in an artful way with enough people that it looks like the event is a success while not being so many that the place feels stifling. At least not to people who actually want to be here. 

He spots Kane locked in conversation with Diana; Shumway is bombarding one of the staff members carrying around plates of food. Cage is talking, or rather, attempting to flirt with the Lightborne daughter, never mind the fact that he’s got at least a decade on her, while her parents are locked in a debate with Abby. 

“We should go,” he tells Clarke under his breath when they swing back around, and Abby and Kane are both still occupied with neither of their conversations looking like they’ll end any time soon. 

Clarke meets his eyes, looks around, and then nods her head slightly in approval. They make their way off the dance floor hand in hand as the song ends, slipping out of the hall without any disturbances. 

Instead of feeling more nervous as they walk through the empty halls, Bellamy actually starts to relax. His shoulders don’t drop, and he keeps his eyes sharp for any sign of people, but his heart rate, which had been elevated for hours, finally settles into a steady rhythm. This is the moment, and he’s good at this part. It's the same as everything else he’s done; the same rules apply, get in, get out, as fast as possible. Leave no trace behind. 

He reaches into his pocket as they get closer to the office, pressing down on the button that Raven assured him would start a loop on the security cameras. 15 minutes and counting. He picks up his pace. Clarke matches it, gliding gracefully across the hall in her too-high shoes and overly puffy dress. 

She pulls the door open without a second of hesitation, overly conscious of their limited time, and gets started right away while he lingers in the doorway, guarding her. He starts to shift back and forth uneasily as the minutes drag on, uncomfortable waiting and watching without the familiar weight of his gun at his back. 

Papers ruffle behind him, the ground creaks as she moves around, opening and closing drawers while he fights off the urge to turn around and look to see what’s happening. This was the plan; she’s better equipped to know what to look for, so it just made sense for her to be the one digging. It's a good plan; he just wishes he was doing something more. 

“Bellamy, come look at this,” she calls out softly, granting him his wish a few seconds later. He peaks his head outside the door before shutting it most of the way and walking towards her. “What is this?” 

His hand reaches out to take the piece of paper carefully with his sleeve over his hand. It looks like a list of names, some of which he recognizes others that he doesn’t. Many of them are crossed out for whatever reason. It's interesting, definitely something for them to examine more closely. He doesn’t understand why Clarke would want him to look at it now, though, until he gets to the bottom, and there, in someone's neat handwriting, is Bellamy Blake, spelled out clearly across the page. 

“Why would my name be on here?” he questions, dread pooling in his stomach. 

Her eyes grow wide with confusion. She opens her mouth to say something, and then the floor creaks behind them. 

He turns around in an instant, dropping the document and putting himself between Clarke and the intruder, while he tries to come up with some explanation. Part of him expects it to be Kane or Abby, ready to bust them, but he hopes that it’s just some unsuspecting staff member. What he’s not anticipating is Dante, hair neatly done with a finely pressed suit, walking through the door. 

“What are you doing in here?” Bellamy demands with all the authority he can muster. 

“I could ask you two the same question,” he counters, an eerie smile on his lips, closing the door firmly behind him. The air grows tense between them, and they stay locked in a stalemate until he lets out a huff of something close to amusement, maybe exasperation, and continues, “I was hoping for the opportunity to talk to the two of you alone, and this seemed like the best time. I would like to offer you my assistance.” 

“We aren’t going to help you,” Bellamy tells the man callously, only just resisting the temptation to add on a fuck off. The interruption, coupled with an already stressful situation, has every one of his nerves on end.

“That is not the proposition I made,” he responds calmly, but there’s an element of condescendence to his tone, the same one that his son had when he looked at Bellamy back at the warehouse, and all it does is increase his desire to blow up at the man. 

Clarke drops the file in her hands back into the cabinet, sensing his irritation, and walks forward until she is standing beside him. She rests a gentle hand on his back, reminding him silently to keep his temper in check, and stares back at Dante with the same air of superiority. The kind that despite everything, he still doesn’t perform believably. 

“I might not be my parents’ biggest fan, I think that’s clear,” Clarke starts to explain her voice outwardly friendly, but underneath that is a dangerous edge that he knows now is more real than anything else. “But don’t mistake my dislike for them as approval for you. I am not going to aid you in destroying the legacy they build.” 

Dante smiles at them, tipping his head to the side in a way that sends shivers running down Bellamy’s spine. “That is not what I am interested in, and I don’t think it’s what you want either. I am offering to help you break the entire system. Wipe it all away as though it never existed in the first place.” 

Beside him, he can sense Clarke’s shock, but she keeps her surprise to herself, pausing to consider the old man in front of them carefully. Bellamy, on the other hand, doesn’t have that kind of restraint. “Of course, you fucking do, and what, we are just supposed to take your word for it? After a lifetime of death and destruction sitting on your hill watching as your town burns, you’ve finally grown a conscience?” 

“You’re right,” Dante answers softly, watching him closely, still calm in the face of his rage. “There’s been too much death.” 

“Death that you’ve had more than a small part in,” Clarke interjects. 

“In the past, yes,” he responds, voice filled with regret and shoulders turned down in a pitiful act that Bellamy doesn’t buy for a second. “I was part of a cycle of violence that went on for far too long, but I’ve seen the error of my ways. I thought I could change the system, but I now know that’s not an option. I wanted to change it; I am not responsible for Jaha’s death.” 

“We know you’re not,” Clarke says after a moment of hesitation. She doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t tell him about any of their suspicions regarding her parents and a falling out with the man who used to be one of their closest friends, but it appears that she didn’t need to. 

“Oh child, it wasn’t your mother either.” 

He can feel Clarke's reaction beside him, so visceral that she physically steps away from Dante. He looks over at her, more concerned about the pallor of her face than the information he just learned. Reaching out, he places a hand on her arm, trying to offer her stability, and while she doesn’t pull away, his movement doesn’t appear to have the desired effect either. 

Her eyes stay locked onto Dante. Bellamy switches his attention to the man in question and feels a rush of annoyance hit him when he observes the pitying expression on his face as he watches Clarke. He manages to hold his tongue for another few seconds before he snaps, “How do you know that?” 

“Because it was my son who ordered the hit.” 

His son and not him. The distinction is clear to Bellamy, but it doesn’t make the situation any less confusing. _Why would Cage want Jaha dead?_

“Why?” Clarke asks, echoing his thoughts, “What would he have to gain by killing Jaha?” 

“It appears that they had been working together for years. They had some sort of partnership.” He looks to Clarke, seeing the same disbelief under her carefully crafted indifference, and then turns back to Dante who’s studying them. He watches the man, trying to read him, but he can’t decipher the emotion on his face until he speaks. “You don’t believe me.” 

“Why would we?” Bellamy asks, realizing what the expression is; he's surprised. He has the arrogance to look surprised. God, he can’t wait to be done with these people. 

“There’s no reason for us to,” Clarke cuts in before Dante can speak. “That’s an awfully big claim to be making with no proof.” 

“Who says I have no proof,” Dante responds with a twinkle in his eye like this is all a big joke to him. He looks straight at Bellamy, the gleam in his eye growing. “If you want proof, all you have to do is go visit your stepfather.”

*****

“Do you believe him?” Bellamy asks Clarke as he wines down the dark streets back to home a few hours later. She takes so long to respond that he quickly glances away from the road to look at her in concern. He watches her bite at her lip for a few seconds before forcing his attention back on the road.

“I don’t know,” she says eventually with a sigh, and tense silence once again settles between them. “What about you?” 

His instinct is to say no, to believe that Dante is just a manipulative old man, saying the right thing at the right time to allow doubt to seep into their thoughts. His mind argues that Dante has been in the game longer than they have been alive. He knows how to play it-- how to play them, but underneath that, he’s just as unsure as Clarke. “I don’t know… you would know better than me?” 

“Maybe,” she gives him, shifting in her seat and then letting out another sigh of frustration. “I don’t know; I can see arguments on both sides, but I keep coming back to the fact that it doesn’t make sense. It never has.” 

“What doesn’t?” he questions, turning to look at her again as they stop at a light. The streetlights shine through the window now, allowing him to see the concentration on her face as she tries to figure it all out. 

“Cage— everything— he’s just, he’s not that smart. I never understood how he managed to start it all up, create the product, test it and do all of that mostly under the radar. He doesn’t have the subtlety nor the patience,” Clarke explains, “but Jaha was a master manipulator. He was a chess player. I could totally see him setting up all the pieces a decade ago and then sitting back while Cage did his bidding thinking it was his own idea.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees as they pull up outside his apartment, and he parks the car. “We’ll see what Murphy and Raven think.” 

The plan was always to meet up with them here where they had hoped they would be to put the last stages of their plan into motion, but it looks like all they have is more questions. He's not surprised, really if this was easy, he would have attempted it years ago, but he’s tired. And concerned. He looks over at Clarke as he opens the door to the building, trying to get a sense of how she’s feeling because from what he’s gathered so far, she seems more shaken by the idea that her parents _didn’t_ have Jaha killed. 

“Finally,” Murphy shouts as soon as he steps into the apartment, “Shouldn’t your carriage turned back into a pineapple hours ago?” 

“It’s a pumpkin, Murphy,” he says with a tired sigh, shrugging his jacket off and pulling his tie the rest of the way off. 

“Whatever,” he responds with a dismissive wave. “It’s still a fruit; the point is what the hell took you two so—” 

He cuts off so suddenly that Bellamy looks up in alarm, half expecting him to be in imitate peril, but instead, he’s just watching Clarke with his eyes narrowed in concerned contemplation. 

“I’m fine, Murphy,” she tells him equally dismissively, shutting the door behind her and then walking forward until she’s standing close enough to him to rest a hand on his back. Not that she does; for all that she’s standing beside him, she feels like she’s miles away. 

“You don’t look fine,” Murphy retorts bluntly, looking at her more closely. His eyes flick away from Clarke and back to him. “Neither of you does. What the fuck happened?” 

Raven comes to stand beside Murphy, adding her own apprehension to the mix, and it’s suddenly too much for Bellamy to bear. He lets out a sigh, runs a hand through his hair, and then forces himself to put his game face on. “What didn’t? It was— let’s just go sit, this is going to take a bit.” 

He reaches behind him to grab Clarke’s hand as he walks to the couch, which she takes, but only for a moment, squeezing once before letting go. He turns back to look at her in confusion, and she smiles back a smile that feels much too forced for his liking. “I need to get out of this dress... go ahead and start, I’ll just be a minute or two.” 

She turns to the bedroom without another word, and he watches her go, making no effort to hide his concern. He remembers Lincoln warning about the struggles of this life, the toll that being back would undoubtedly have on Clarke, and his promise to be there with her through it all. 

“Well, are you going to follow her?” Murphy snarks quickly, but underneath the annoyance, Bellamy can sense the authenticity along with a heavy dose of reluctance. If he doesn’t go talk to Clarke, then Murphy might have to, and god forbid he be cornered into any situation that lets the world know he has emotions. 

The thought of Murphy trying to comfort Clarke brings an amused smile to his face, but it falls away quickly. She’s not okay; clearly, she’s not, and he wants to be there for her; he will be there for her, but not right now. He makes his way over to the couch, landing on them with a huff. Right now, he needs to figure out this mess. That will do more to help her than any meaningless words he could give her. 

“Seriously?” Murphy questions, still standing by the door. Bellamy looks to Raven, who had followed his lead towards the couches, and she just shrugs, so he turns back to Murphy. “That’s it? Where’s Octavia when you need her?” 

“Yes,” Bellamy answers decisively. Clarke will be out in a moment; this is the right call. He glares at Murphy until he rolls his eyes and sits on the armrest of Raven’s chair. “Okay, good. Things got more complicated.” 

“Of course, they did,” Murphy interjects in exasperation. 

Raven flicks Murphy in the arm, still focused on what he has to tell them. “How?” 

He lets out a sigh and then starts to relay the conversation they had with Dante, trying to convey the way he said things with as much detail as he can. It matters, he thinks. On the surface, it would be easy to discount everything, but there was something in Dante's eye as he talked that has stayed with Bellamy. Thankfully, Clarke returns before too long, taking over the explanation in a way that not only seems to help Raven and Murphy understand but also helps him to see things differently. 

“So, it’s been Cage all along?” Raven asks when Clarke is finished, skepticism clear in her voice. 

“Cage on the surface,” she answers, “but really Jaha pulling the strings.” 

Murphy lets out a snort, “Yeah Cage isn’t that smart. If it had just been Cage, the city would have burned to the ground years ago. Running things takes a delicate hand.” 

“And you all think that Jaha has the skills to do it all? Do it right under his partner’s noses too?” Raven asks, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Look, I’m not saying he’s full of shit, but it just seems too convenient for him. Especially since he’s asking you to just believe him with nothing.” 

Clarke looks over at him, and he feels his chest tighten as he is forced to consider the piece of information Dante dropped on them for the first time with any substance. Her silent question was as subtle as she could make it, just a quick glance, but it doesn’t matter. Murphy catches it and latches on like a dog to a bone. 

“What the fuck aren’t you telling us now?” 

“He didn’t give us nothing,” Bellamy says with a sigh while Clarke rubs soothing circles across his back. He didn’t mean to purposely leave this part of the conversation out, but he also hasn’t been eager to confront it. He’d pushed all thoughts of that man away a long time ago and doesn’t relish the idea of letting them back in. “He said that if we don’t trust him, I should go visit O’s Dad.” 

“Oh, and we are just supposed to trust that asshole?” Raven asks, standing up in outrage. Clarke looks surprised at the ferocity in her tone, but he isn’t. While Raven wasn’t really around when everything went down with him, not in any significant way, there’s never been a doubt in Bellamy's mind that she attributes the anger she saw in him all those years ago to that man. That, on top of Octavia’s issues, was enough to instill a fervent hate for him in her. 

“Wait, I thought Octavia’s dad was dead?” Murphy questions, confused by the tension filling the room. 

“Should be,” Raven mutters darkly, but he ignores that, focusing his attention on Murphy in an attempt to calm the roaring in his ears. 

“Prison.” 

“He could be dead,” Raven amends with too much glee. “it’s been nearly a decade. That’s a long time to last in that place.” 

Bellamy doesn’t look at Raven, not wanting to see her reaction when he reveals, “He’s not dead.” 

“How would you know that, Bellamy?” she asks him, and he can feel the heat of her glare on him. He turns to Clarke, unsure of what he’ll see, and is met with sad understanding. He’s not surprised she's already figured it out, she’s smart, and her situation is closer to his than Raven's is with her parental figures. 

Raven’s Dad was gone before she could walk, and her Mom has never been anything other than an alcoholic drain on her, so it was easy for her to write the woman off the minute she could. For him, and for Clarke, it’s not that simple, though, because there was the tiniest piece of good mixed in with the awful. “I couldn’t just leave him in prison to rot.” 

“You could have, and you should have,” she says with a decisiveness that proves his thoughts. 

“Well, I didn’t,” he answers, finally gaining the courage to look at her again when Clarke offers him a small smile. He should have, he knows it, but that’s not something he has the mental power to acknowledge tonight. “I’ll call tomorrow to check the visiting hours and then go.” 

Raven lets out a noise of protest, Murphy is uncharacteristically silent, and Clarke looks pained, but he just feels numb, and he’s grateful for it. Today has already been a long day; he’ll deal with it all tomorrow. For now, all he wants to do is sleep and pretend that this evening didn’t just make everything more complicated.


	19. Use me as you will

With his hands pressed tightly onto the steering wheel, Bellamy rehearses what he’s going to say again. He knows the speech, him and Clarke went through it enough times last night for it to be burned into his memory for all eternity. It’s simple, straight to the point. Get in and get out as fast as possible. There’s no reason for his heart to be hammering in his chest or sweat to be dripping uncomfortably down his back, but as the prison begins to take shape through the fog, large and opposing with heavily guarded walls, both symptoms are blatantly apparent. 

Clarke shifts in the passenger seat beside him and his eyes dart over to look at her before he can stop them. It’s a mistake. For the last year and a half, but especially over the last few months, she’s been he’s comfort; she’s had the ability to make everything slightly better and while that’s as true as ever, right now, having her on this mission with him just feels like the manifestation of all his nightmares come to life. 

He wants her with him, god knows that’s true, but he doesn’t want her here, doesn’t want her anywhere near the man who, if he’s really getting down to the truth of the matter, took his somewhat crappy life and turned it into the shit show it became. He doesn’t want that kind of corruption to taint her; it’s different than what she’s faced in her life, not darker or more sinister, just different. Or maybe he just doesn’t want her to see the source of his own darkness. 

Not that any of it matters. She’s sitting beside him, her hands folded together neatly in her lap like she needs the restraint to stop herself from reaching out to him with her brow wrinkled in concentration; determination. He’d tried to go alone this morning, heading for the apartment door as he casually told her he’d be back by nightfall. 

It didn’t work. 

He didn’t expect it to work. 

She’d followed after him, grabbing her own coat off the rack beside his before turning to him and announcing, “If you go, I go.” She said it simply, like a vow, and he wasn’t going to argue with her. Really, he couldn’t. She let him into her world, let him see the hell that she came from when he wanted to be there to support her despite her reservations, and now it’s his turn. 

The air is heavy with tension and silence when he finally pulls into a visitor parking spot, neither of them making any motion to get out. He feels the panic he’s been trying to ignore for the last day crawl and cut at his skin like a monster he thought he had buried a long time ago. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, just like he used to, of the fresh night air when sleeping proved impossible over the loud noises of people fighting or fucking. Instead of crisp cool air from his open window mixed with the sickly smell of drugs drifting under his door, now all he can smell is the familiar traces of Clarke’s shampoo. 

His body is coiled in tension, his jaw locked tightly. He doesn’t want to go in there, especially with her beside him. He’s not going to ask her to stay in the truck, though. They are partners; he doesn’t get to ask her to stay back. 

“It’s going to be fine,” she offers quietly, breaking through the sound of blood rushing in his ears. 

“Of course it is,” he mutters back with only the slightest edge of hysteria. “Just a quick family reunion, get the information that we need, and then get out. Easy. Simple. Absolutely nothing to go wrong with that plan.” 

“Bellamy,” she says softly. 

He catches sight of her hand twitching, but it remains securely in her lap. He closes his eyes again, opens them, and then takes another deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He’s going to do this because it’s what needs to get done, same as always. 

“It is going to be fine,” he repeats her claim with confidence that he doesn’t feel, staring straight ahead. It infuses into his bones, giving him the strength that he needs until he looks over at her again where he quickly spots the concern written all over her face. After that, his bravo fades, and all he is left is determination; thankfully, it’s enough. “I need to believe that it’s going to be fine, okay?” 

“Okay,” she says back, smiling encouragingly. “Let’s get this done.” 

She opens the door, getting out before he has the chance to overthink it, and he follows after her as he always does. The complexities of navigating through the building and making it past security take over then, and it’s not until they are sitting in an empty room, save for the guard standing at the door, that the worries of before return. 

He’d be thankful for the reprieve if it didn’t mean that the panic comes rushing back like a wave the moment that his eyes land on the man who used to haunt his nightmares, so intense and sudden that the world starts to spin around him. Gordon settles on the bench, where he waits patiently as a guard attaches the chains around his wrists to a hook in the ground. 

“It’s been a long time,” Gordon greets with a gleam in his eyes as the guards make their exit, giving them the limited privacy that this place allows. “How’s that sister of yours?” 

Bellamy’s blood runs cold, and any hope he still had of making it through this conversation with ease vanishes. Octavia has always been his weakness, the best way to manipulate him, and they both know it; he learned that lesson a long time ago when he still had a glimmer of hope in him and was resistant to the idea of a life dealing the drugs that killed his mom. 

Gordon looks at him, a hint of a smirk on his face like he knows exactly where his thoughts have gone, and Bellamy has to resist the instinct to duck his head and look away, to submit in the way his body remembers. He tries to focus on the present, to see the man in front of him for who he is now: a nearly 60-year-old man whose body has clear signs of decay after a lifetime of drug abuse and years in one of the toughest prisons in the region, but he can’t. 

All he can see is the man who used to take their food as a punishment, hold it over his head while Octavia whimpered that she was hungry, waiting for Bellamy to cave like he knew he would. He sees him as he remembers the first time his mother introduced them with a smile on her lips but bruises under her clothes. He's an all-consuming threat again like he was in the beginning, looming large and menacing above him, ready to strike at a moment's notice. 

Clarke moves closer towards them, clearly intending to take control of the situation, and he isn't quite able to repress a flinch. He should have begged her to stay home, in the car, somewhere far from here, where no one would be able to look at her with that type of look in their eye. 

“Clarke Griffin, nice time meet you,” Clarke introduces herself without hesitation once she’s standing just behind him, unperturbed by the lecherous grin on his stepfather’s face. 

Instead of responding to Clarke, Gordon’s eyes flick back to Bellamy, the smirk dropping away in an instant. “For someone who never wanted to play the game, you sure as fuck are playing it now. Jesus Christ, what are you doing boy?” 

The familiarity of the accusation, the dismissal and the disgust, the use of the term “boy” like he isn’t deserving of a name, is finally enough to snap Bellamy back into the present. He’s not little and scared anymore; he hasn’t been in a long time. He has people to protect, shit to get done, and no time to let ghosts from the past haunt him. There are already more than enough enemies to contend with at the moment. 

“I want to know how you got locked up,” Bellamy asks, ignoring his remarks and getting straight to the point. “You always said that you didn’t do it. If you didn’t, who did?” 

Gordon looks at him in appraisal, sizing him up to determine if he is worthy of an answer. It’s a power move that used to send him shrinking back, but he’s not fifteen years old anymore, and he’s not afraid; at least not in the way he used to be, not with Clarke’s presence behind him now filling him with confidence, giving him the strength to just stare back defiantly and wait for an answer. 

“I don’t know,” he finally answers, a glimmer of pride and respect in his eyes that makes Bellamy feel sick to his stomach. “Some nobody, whoever replaced me probably, but that doesn’t matter. The real question is who set me up.” 

He trails off purposefully, and Bellamy is forced to grit his teeth to stop himself from lashing out. He doesn’t want to play this game, to ask the question and follow him down whatever dangerous path he’s being pulled down, but he needs answers. The smirk is back when Bellamy looks over again. 

“I’ve got a guess,” Clarke interrupts the face-off before Bellamy can do something stupid like punch the bastard in his smug face. “Cage Wallace.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch.” 

“Oh, I think I do,” Clarke counters quickly, leaning closer in a way that both fills Bellamy with pride and terror; Clarke never backs down; he knows that, but for some reason, he didn’t think about the ramifications of it in this context. “In fact, I know I do.” 

“Whatever the hell you’ve gotten yourself into kid,” he says, looking away from Clarke and back to Bellamy, “get out now, before it’s too late for you, too.” 

“I’m not worried about me,” Bellamy responds with the kind of fabricated indifference that he used to wear like a favorite T-shirt. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps back. Bellamy clenches his hand into a fist below the table. “It’s not about you. If you can’t be smart enough to stop for yourself, do it for your sister, for your girl.” 

“They threatened Octavia,” Clarke says in an astonished breath. 

It takes Bellamy a few seconds to wade through years of resentment to understand the meaning behind Clarke’s words, but once he does, a shiver runs down his spine. Before he can voice one of the many thoughts running through his head, however, Gordon nods solemnly, “Bellamy too.” 

“Why?” Bellamy asks once he’s had a second to wrap his mind around the fact that the man who made his life hell has spent the last decade sitting in prison protecting him. It doesn’t make sense; it shifts his entire view of his childhood, tilting the world on its axis and leaving him floating in an abyss of confusion. He doesn’t linger there long, though. He can’t afford to, so he pushes the crisis away and focuses back on the purpose of this trip. 

“Because I’m hard to kill,” Gordon responds with a shrug. “They tried that first, and then when it didn’t stick, they must have decided to go with another route. Bastards. I wasn’t expecting them to, and that was my downfall.” 

“But why? Why did he care so much? Why did he set you up?” Bellamy asks, pushing for an answer. 

“No. No fucking way,” Gordon responds aggressively, but underneath the anger, he looks frightened. It’s another unexpected realization for Bellamy, the idea that the man he feared for so long is also afraid, and it’s one that he will have to explore later. Right now, there are other priorities. “That’s it. I’m done.” 

“Jaha is dead,” Clarke says calmly, stopping Gordon before he can even get out of his seat. 

“Fuck.” 

Bellamy grimaces. That, right there, is nearly enough confirmation that what Dante is saying is true. He can’t imagine another reason why Gordon would curse Jaha’s death, a man who he supposedly hated as much as Bellamy himself, and not celebrate it. “Yeah, it’s not great.” 

“Not great,” Gordon mutters under his breath. “That’s a big fucking understatement.” He continues under his breath, and Bellamy takes the opportunity to share a look with Clarke. They have what they came for, they could leave now, but something is holding him back. Maybe it’s a childish part of him that wants to learn more about the man who was the closest thing to a father he’s ever known, or maybe there’s hope now for more information. That hope proves correct a few seconds later when the muttering becomes audible again. “Cage is going to be out of control without Jaha around to reign him in.” 

“He’s already out of control,” Clarke informs Gorden while placing a reassuring hand on the back of Bellamy's shoulder. Bellamy leans into the touch, grateful for the grounding. “Jaha died in a car accident.” 

“Fuck,” Gordon curses again more viciously than the last time. “You two have leave to now, get out while you still can—” Bellamy opens his mouth to object, but the man in front of him just continues on undeterred. “No, I’m serious. You don’t know who you are messing with, the shit that he will do... fuck, where’s Octavia?” 

“She’s out, currently traversing around Westen Europe,” Bellamy says, still confuses by the hint of genuine concern he sees in the other man’s eyes. “And we’ll leave too... after this is all over. I need to see it through.” 

“Of course, you do,” Gordon groans, shaking his head in a mixture of disapproval and exasperation. “You always did have an aptitude for playing the hero. Okay, if you are doing this— and really, you both are fucking idiots, but more power to you if you can get rid of that piece of shit— you need to be smart about it. Kane, Jaha, Dante,” his eyes flick to Clarke, “Griffin, they will all slit your throat without a second of hesitation, but Cage will do it looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Do not underestimate him. That's what I did and look what happened to me.” 

Clarke tenses up behind him at the mention of her parents, suddenly reminded her of what this means concerning what they thought about them. He doesn’t get the chance to comment on it, though, before the guard from before is calling out, “Times up.” 

Gordon rises to his feet without complaint, sparing them one more glance and a quick. “Remember to use your head, kid,” before walking out the door. 

Stunned by the course of events, it takes Bellamy a few minutes to realize that Clarke is still a ball of tension beside him. Once he notices that, it’s easy to push aside his own worries and focus on hers. He takes her hand gently in his, leading them out of the building and back to the car.

*****

Sliding off his shoes, Bellamy pauses in the doorway to her apartment while she walks straight into the kitchen. He watches her open the cupboard door, but she never reaches forward to grab her glass. Instead, her hands end up on either side of the counter, pressing into the cold surface with the same stiffness that has lingered over her the entire car ride home. He didn’t know what to say then to break the silence between them, and he still doesn’t now. Fortunately, she seems to have found her voice again.

“Just because they didn’t do this doesn’t mean that they haven’t done a million other things that are just as unforgivable.” 

“You don’t need to convince me that they are horrible people,” Bellamy says softly, moving forward until he’s right beside her. Close enough that he can see the way her fingertips have started to turn white from the grip. 

She lets out a sigh, the anger in her deflating away like smoke, and leans into him. “They are horrible.” 

If the conviction in her voice sounded even a little more genuine, maybe he’d be able to let it go, but he can’t because he can see the way this revelation has shaken her. Plus, the whole ordeal has undoubtedly altered his definition of horrible. “There are a lot of people who do terrible things, that doesn’t necessarily make them terrible people.” 

“They still ordered the hit on my dad,” she argues, pulling away from him and turning so that her back is resting against the marble countertop. The move puts her clearly in front of him, for which he is grateful. 

If it were up to him, he’d probably continue on as planned; burn everything to the ground with no restraint, leave nothing left standing. In his mind, they don’t deserve mercy, not after the way they have torn apart hundreds of lives with their greed. Hell, not after how they have treated her, but Clarke is different than him, better than him. At the end of the day, it’s her family and her call; she just has to know that she can make whichever one feels right. “They did, but should they pay for that with their lives?” 

“Why shouldn’t they?” she questions back, the anger returning in a flash. “My dad paid with his life. Some many others have too. Why do they deserve the mercy that they haven’t granted anyone else?” 

Biting back a smile at the way their thoughts align so perfectly, he pulls her forward into a hug. She settles against him, and he feels the tension that had been building inside him since the moment they decided to visit the prison finally release. It doesn’t matter what his life was like before or if his childish perception warped Gordon into the villain he never was. 

He initiated the embrace to help her-- to try and soothe the rough edges of parental neglect that he could feel sharpening around her, but instead, she offered the peace to him. His experiences are valid whether they are the complete truth or not, just as hers are. They are going to be okay. She lets out a breath, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he can feel her relax. 

“We never actually talked about what happened after we figured out how to take this all down,” Bellamy starts slowly, hesitant to break the tranquility, but aware that they need to talk about this. “What would happen to the people in charge, but I assumed that none of them were making it out alive.” 

She steps back enough that he can see her face, and he knows instantly that his assumption was correct. “It’s the way it has to be, right? We can’t leave them around to rebuild it all as soon as we are gone. That would just invalidate all of what we’re trying to do.” 

He hates that this is something she feels like she has to do. What kind of fucked up world is this where she thinks she has to kill her parents to protect everyone else? Determination settles over him. He doesn’t care if what she’s saying is completely true; he won’t trade the safety of everyone else for her light. “No, it doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to do anything.” 

“And if I want to?” she asks so quietly that he can barely hear her with less than a foot between them. He tries to catch her eye, but she keeps her gaze locked firmly on her hands. 

“Then that’s understandable too.” 

Letting out a slightly hysterical laugh, she shakes her head. “It’s really not.” 

A grimace settles on his face because she’s right, but she’s also wrong. “I would understand.” 

“Thanks,” she says sarcastically, and it’s almost like he can feel her closing off again. The distance stretches between them, and he struggles to figure out how to fix it, but she reaches back out to him before he needs to, closing the gap through sheer will. “No. Seriously, thank you for loving me even as I contemplate murder.” 

“You’re not the only fucked up one, Clarke,” he says with a tense smile, aiming for joking and missing by a long shot. “You don’t think there were nights that I thought about killing Gordon? Sneaking into his room late at night when he was passed out from drugs and putting a bullet through his head? Trust me, I’ve thought about it for as long as I can remember.”

“But you never did.” He lets her words settle over him, trying to absorb their truth, but it doesn’t work; she’ll never have any idea how close he came some nights, how he’s sure that if he hadn’t had gone away when he did, that he probably would have. “You know,” she continues, reading right through him, “sometimes people who do horrible things aren’t horrible people, but sometimes they are. One good thing in a life of shitty ones doesn’t suddenly erase the bad.” 

“I know,” he responds, squeezing her hand to let her know that he hears her and he’s trying, but that’s all he can offer at the moment. 

She returns the pressure, dropping the subject for now. “I’m not sure that I’m impartial enough to tell the difference where my mom and Kane are concerned.” 

“If you’re not, then I’m definitely not,” he tells her, continuing, “They hurt you, Clarke, hurt you in ways I’m sure I’ll never fully understand. There is honestly nothing more I’d like than for you to never get that cold look in your eye that always seems to appear when Abby is around, but killing them is not worth losing you.” 

There's no mistaking the shudder that passes through her, and he knows he was right for saying that; he can already see how committing such an act would drain the life out of her. She already carries enough guilt on her shoulders; she doesn’t need any more. 

“Let’s call Dante,” Clarke suggests suddenly. He looks out the window, noting the setting sun, and then to the clock before finally shrugging his agreement. They don’t need to make any decisions yet. They don’t even know what the plan is besides take everything down. They have time.

*****

“I guess we’re all set, then,” Clarke says, standing up from the table and bushing nonexistent dirt off her hands. Bellamy makes his way towards her, looking around the empty office space as if coming out of a daze.

The sleek glass walls and stainless-steel furniture are illuminated now by overhead lights instead of the setting sun, but they seem just as intimidating as they did when he and Clarke walked in hours ago. Blatantly, he wonders once again who this place belongs to before once again pushing the thought away. It doesn’t matter. They did what they set out to do. They now have a plan, which by all accounts, is actually relatively simple. 

If they were smarter, maybe they would try and do this more slowly, carefully installing themselves in every organization like they have been and dismembering it piece by piece. Instead, they’ve settled on a time, a series of key locations, and are just going to send it all burning to the ground, figuratively and literally speaking. 

It’s the method he most prefers, the one he would have favored all along if not for the risk it posed to them. While he and Clarke may be leaving as soon as everything goes down, he doesn’t care to spend the rest of his life on the run, nor does he want the blame to land on Murphy or Raven’s shoulders, but fortunately, that won’t be a problem. 

They quickly realized that Clarke’s dilemma over what to do about her parents could be solved in a way that helps them finish this quickly. They don't need to be careful if they want someone to be caught. He and Clarke will be able to finish this without restraint, and then Kane and Abby will receive the punishment they deserve while Clarke gets to keep her hands clean. It’s perfect. 

“Indeed,” Dante replies, smiling at her in a way that still freaks him out hours later and following her lead. “Everything is set, with one exception.” 

Bellamy feels dread drip down his spine, not unexpected, but troubling all the same. They were almost through; everything has gone according to plan. When he thinks about it like that, it just seems fitting that a hurdle has appeared. After all, when has anything simply worked out for him? 

“And what is that?” Clarke questions with steel in her voice, getting there before him. 

The smile on Dante’s face turns soft as he takes in the tension undoubtedly lining both Clarke’s and his features. “Do not worry child,” he chides gently. “All I mean to say is that empires fall, we see that all throughout history, but then they rise back up. It’s a cycle that is told in the oldest of texts, and one which will undoubtedly prove true here.” 

“We need to make a plan for after,” Bellamy finally says, in a rush of understanding. 

“Precisely,” Dante says in approval, tipping his head in Bellamy’s direction. “Our plan is good, and I have confidence it will work. Within a few days, the forces that rule this city will be reduced to rubble, and there will be no one in the immediate aftermath to pick up the pieces and rebuild. Eventually, though, there will be someone. What we need to decide now is who that someone should be.” 

“And let me guess, you have someone perfect for the job?” Bellamy interjects, strangely off-put by the glimmer of pride he keeps catching in Dante’s eyes whenever he looks too closely at him. It makes him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he has no desire to be here. 

“No, of course, not.” 

“Really?” Clarke questions his easy dismissal with all the skepticism it deserves. 

“Truly,” he responds, looking Clarke straight in the eye before turning away. “You’ve both had the chance to interact with my son; I think he’s proof enough that I shouldn’t be grooming anyone for leadership. No, I’ve done enough damage already.” 

“I’m not interested,” Bellamy tells him firmly while Clarke nods vigorously in agreement. A few more days and then they are out of here, no looking back. 

“I didn’t think you would be,” Dante reveals with a light chuckle and that same fucking look in his eye. Bellamy’s skin starts to feel too tight and only gets worse as he continues, “although, that’s why you would make the perfect candidate. I think that was my downfall; somewhere along the line, I started to enjoy it too much, to relish in the power I had…” He shakes his head as though to clear the regrets plaguing him from his mind and turns his attention back to them. “Regardless, I trust that you two will be able to find someone suitable to hand the keys to the city to, so to speak.” 

Clarke looks over at him questioningly, and he just shrugs slightly in response. He doesn’t know who would be good, but they have come this far, he’s sure that they will be able to figure it out. Either way, he’d prefer the decision be left up to them. He nods his acceptance of the responsibility, but Clarke narrows her eyes, trying to tell him something else. 

His brow wrinkles in confusion as he attempts to figure out what she could be suggesting. The most obvious answer would be she already has a name, but who could she have chosen that fast, with that much confidence? He filters through the people she knows, ticking them off one by one as poor candidates until finally, he reaches the name he’s sure she’s thinking of and wants to slap himself for how obvious the choice is. 

Murphy. 

He enjoys this world, thrives in the messy darkness of it all, but underneath that is the exact type of kindness someone who has the much power needs to possess. He’s ambitious; he’ll have what it takes to get to the top, build back up, but he’s also careful and considerate; he won’t push too far. More important than all of that, though, is the fact the Murphy knows himself, knows his strengths and his weaknesses more clearly than anyone else Bellamy knows. 

Bellamy nods back at Clarke in agreement. Murphy really is a perfect choice. 

Their entire silent conversation can’t have lasted longer than a few minutes at most, but by the time Bellamy nods his head again and turns his attention back to Dante, there’s a small smile on his lips like he witnessed the entire exchange. Not for the first time during this encounter, Bellamy studies the man they have somehow aligned themselves with, this time noting the wistful edge to his attention. 

“We will figure it out,” Clarke promises, breaking Bellamy free from his confusing thoughts. 

“Perfect,” Dante exhales, reaching for his coat and pulling it on. “It was a pleasure working with the two of you. I hope that you both get to have the life you’ve always dreamed of, and I thank you for helping me right some long-standing sins.” 

It strikes Bellamy as he watches Dante’s silhouette disappear that if everything goes correctly, they will never see him again. For the first time in his life, Bellamy can see the light at the end of the tunnel. There's an end to all of this madness. He lets out a breath, equal parts hopeful and fearful, but then Clarke leans against his shoulder, and hope wins out. 

They are almost done; they are almost free.


	20. I'll be there for you through it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more left after this! I can't believe it's almost over. 
> 
> Please see the endnotes for a trigger warning if that's something you're interested in just because I'd rather be overly cautious.

“Okay, I think that’s it,” Clarke says, closing the desk drawer and turning back to him with a grim face. 

“Are you sure?” Bellamy asks as he runs a hand nervously through his hair. Instead of answering, she just tilts her head to the side, and he lets out a sigh. She’s right; they are good. He knows they are. The evidence they need is in place, they have done all they can do for now, but he’s never been good at this part: the waiting. Still, that wasn’t entirely what he was asking. “Yeah, I know, it is what it is now... what I actually meant was are you sure this is what you want to do?” 

“Yes,” she tells him confidently before seeming to shrink in on herself, “I think. It's a good move, right? Fair enough?” 

“I think it’s a whole lot nicer than a bullet in the head,” he says bluntly, past the point of being polite. 

“I was thinking more, fair in terms of everyone else, not them,” she answers with a hint of a smile on her face. It's nice, he hasn’t seen it nearly enough recently, but it fades away quickly. “What would my dad think?” 

They really should leave, get out well they still can, but the opportunity to take this back is quickly disappearing, and she still looks way more unsure than he would like, so instead, he just leans back against the wall and gives her the time she deserves to contemplate it. 

“I feel like he would care more about what happens to you than what happens to them.” She looks at him questioningly, crossing her arms almost protectively around herself. So when he continues, he does so more softly. “If this is what you want, this is how you feel like you’ll be able to move on and be free, then it’s the right move, but if regrets are going to follow you wherever we go next, then we need to re-evaluate.” 

She stares intently back at him, so close that it almost feels like she’s still looking for him to give her the answer. It’s only once she's taken a step forward, uncrossing her arms to grab his hand, he realizes that it wasn’t about him giving her an answer. Instead, it's about him giving her the support that she needs to come to her own conclusion. The thought brings a smile to his face despite the tension of the moment. 

“No, it’s okay. You’re right, he wouldn’t—” she starts to say shakily, only to stop suddenly when the door opens with a loud creak. 

“Clarke, I didn’t know you were coming by today,” Abby greets with surprise that turns to thinly veiled annoyance when she spots him a second later, coming further into the room. “Oh, Bellamy, you are here too.” She looks around the office, from Clarke with tears clinging to the edges of her eyelashes still and then to him, and the accusation is clear in her gaze. “What’s going on here?” 

Fear races down Bellamy’s spine; saying this doesn’t look good would be putting it mildly. They have no reason the be in here, especially looking like they are with the door shut. Swallowing down the lump in his thought, Bellamy tries to come up with an excuse. All he needs is something to say; it doesn’t have to be a very believable excuse. He just needs her to buy it long enough for them to get out of here. It’s unlikely that they will be able to find all the evidence they’ve placed before tonight. 

He opens his mouth, willing to use the only halfway decent lie in his head that they wanted to hook up in here even if it makes his skin itch thinking about it, but Clarke bets him to it. She steps around him so that she’s face to face with her mom and boldly asks her, “Did you have dad killed?” 

Abby’s eyes widen in surprise right along with his, but it only lasts a moment before then narrow in suspicion. Within the next second, her face has morphed into what Bellamy assumes is supposed to be an innocent expression. “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Clarke, and honestly, the insulation that I would ever—” 

“Stop lying!” Clarke practically shouts, and Bellamy feels the ever-present concern within him grow. 

This wasn’t part of the plan, and while it works, giving them a way to disguise their purpose here and Clarke the answers she deserves, there’s something about the way she’s shaking beside him in barely restrained fury that puts him on edge. 

From what he gathered from their brief conversation before Abby appeared, she intends to proceed with their plan as it is, but if she has the listen to Abby lie to her about it, that might make her impulsive, and that, he’s sure will lead to regrets. He takes a step closer to Clarke, glad for once that neither of them has a gun on them. The last thing Clarke needs is to shoot her mom in anger. 

“I thought we were past this, Clarke,” Abby tells her daughter in exasperation. “That you had finally grown up and realized that I wasn’t this evil person who ruined your life.” 

Clarke lets out a snort while Abby’s eyes flash in contempt, and Bellamy knows he needs to do something. They have placed the evidence they needed to, and everything is coming to a head in a matter of hours; it really shouldn’t matter if they blow their cover here as long as it doesn’t reveal their plans. It's okay for Abby to know that he’s not as compliant as he’s attempted to seem. 

With that thought in mind, Bellamy steps in front of Clarke. Abby has never really warmed to him for all the fake smiles and heartfelt greetings she’s directed his way. She’ll easily think that he’s got into Clarke’s head, and if she believes that, that Clarke is nothing but a foolish girl in love, then their plans are safe. He can make sure that's what she thinks, and Clarke can get the answers she needs to move on from this. “Cut the bullshit.” 

“Excuse me,” Abby interjects, making no effort now to hide her disgust. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t get to come into my home and speak to me in that way.” 

“Mom,” Clarke abolishes her in disgust, but he looks over his shoulder, meeting her eyes and telling her silently to follow his lead before she gets any farther. She nods her head slightly, just enough to let him know that she understands, and so he turns back to Abby. 

“You like to forget that this was Clarke’s house too. That it is her house, that all of it is, and you don’t get to take that away because you disagree with her. It’s her legacy whether or not you want to admit it.” 

Abby's eyes flash with blatant mistrust, and Bellamy heaves a silent sigh of relief, reassured that he’s on the right path despite having no idea where he’s planning on going with all this. She takes a step closer to him, leveling him with the same kind of look he’s spent the last few months watching her dish out with barely hidden revulsion. He makes no effort to hide his true feelings now, and it’s liberating to watch the predatory smile on her face falter for a moment. 

“Before you showed up, she didn’t seem to have any interest in claiming her place. I’ve wondered what suddenly changed, and I guess I’ve finally got my answer. You saw an opportunity to create a better life for you and yours; under different circumstances, I’d applaud the ruthlessness; it’s exactly what people like us need to succeed, but you pose a threat to my family, and I won’t have that.” 

“I swear to god, mom,” Clarke threatens, stepping up beside him and then placing a protective hand on his arm. “If he or any of his family get hurt, I’ll know it’s you, and trust me, you don’t want to see what happens then. Not a single hair on any of their heads is harmed, and that includes any _accidents_.” 

“I don’t know what lies this boy has filled your head with Clarke,” Abby says, her attention suddenly shifting back to her daughter. “But that’s all they are.” 

“So, dad’s accident?” Clarke asks, her voice shaky and unsure. He can tell, even without looking, how much asking the question has cost her. It's ripping open old wounds and creating new ones all at once, but it doesn’t seem like Abby feels the same weight to the room. 

“Was tragic and horrible, but that was all it was,” Abby tells her, an air of condescension to her tone rather than compassion, reminding Bellamy once again why he can’t stand the sight of her. “You know I could never do something to hurt your father. I loved him; I love you.” 

Clarke stiffens next to him, her face turning cold and hard. “How can you keep lying to my face?” Clarke questions, sounding smaller and more broken than he’s heard since the day that Wells died. “How can you keep lying to me and still claim to love me?” 

“Clarke,” Abby says softly, reaching her hand out and making him almost think that maybe there is a part of her that loves her daughter, if not in the way that she should, at least in some way, but then Clarke jerks away from her touch and her eyes turn angry again. Bellamy steps in between them then, recognizing that look from the day at the clinic and not interested in seeing a repeat of the events then. The move pulls her attention back to him, which he’s more than okay with. If she’s going to show her true self, he’d rather she unleashes it onto him. “Who do you think you are?” 

“I am someone who loves your daughter and isn’t going to let you continue to use her as you have done for years,” he tells her, relishing the truth of the statement. He glances at Clarke, thankful for the love he sees reflected back at him before turning back to Abby. “We know the truth; we’ve seen the hit order. Your lies mean nothing now.” 

Abby looks between him and Clarke, her eyes narrowed like she is trying to figure out her next move, which she evidently must do as her attention settles back on her daughter. “It’s not what you think, Clarke. There was no way for me to stop it, by the time I knew it was too late. The best I could do was make sure you weren’t in the car too.” 

Letting out a scoff, Clarke steps around her mom, moving towards the door without another glance towards her mom. For a second, he thinks that she might just walk straight out and is proud of her for it, but she turns around in the doorway to address him. “I’ll be waiting in the car, okay? I can’t—” she cuts herself off, looking for all the world like she might start crying at any moment, and his heart aches to go to her side, but he needs to finish this. A small smile pulls at the corner of her lips like she can read his thoughts. 

“I won’t be long,” he promises her, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” she tells him, and he can see in the shine of her eyes that it was only partially to bother her mom. 

He watches her go, keeping his eyes on the door frame as the sound of her footsteps echoes down the hall, only to then direct his attention to the family portrait hanging obscenely in the wall. His focus is instantly drawn to Clarke, sitting regally in a chair at what he thinks was probably around eight with a tense smile on her face that even that artist's immense talent couldn’t make believable. 

From there, though, his eyes drift towards the tall, imposing figure of Jake Griffin. After all this time, he still doesn’t know much about the man, but he can say with confidence that he loved his daughter fiercely. It’s right there in the painting, as obvious as Clarke’s dismay; it shines out of him like a beacon, giving life to what would otherwise be an incredibly uncomfortable piece of art. 

As he stares into the man’s eyes, Bellamy wonders if what he told Clarke was true: would Jake care more about Clarke than himself, and the answer is undoubtedly yes. For all the trouble Bellamy has had defining his relationship with Clarke, the kind of love he sees in Jake is familiar to him. It’s how he is with Octavia, with Harper and Monty. With Raven and Murphy. It’s the kind of love that’s long-lasting, unconditional, and irreplaceable. It’s the love of family, true family. 

At that moment, he vows to be to Clarke everything he knows her father would want her to have. 

“Your plan isn’t going to work.” 

“And what plan is that exactly?” he asks mildly, knowing he needs to keep his temper in check maybe more now than ever. 

“Clarke’s not going to inherit anything— you won’t get anything— regardless of what happened to my deceased husband. It might be her legacy, as you so aptly put it, but as you saw a few moments ago, she’s not interested in being around to fulfill it, and without her, you don’t have anything.” 

“You’re right,” Bellamy agrees, a smile curving at the corners of his lips. “without her, I don’t have anything, but I do have her; she’s right out there waiting for me, and that fact alone is all I need.” 

He walks past her then without another word, following Clarke’s path back to the car with a feeling of peace coursing through him. As he goes, passing the paintings on the walls that have become frighteningly familiar to him, the harmony turns into contemplation. He thinks about Jake, and he thinks about Clarke, about all the conversations they never got to have. From there, his mind drifts to Octavia, and then before he knows it, his phone is in his hand, and the dial tone is ringing. 

It’s been months at this point since he’s heard from her specifically, the entirety of their limited contact going through Lincoln, and it would be an understatement to say he misses her. He’s been busy, thankfully, but even so, he feels the ache of her absence acutely. Still, he hasn’t reached out. 

She wanted space, and he’s been determined to give her that. All of this has him thinking, though, and he doesn’t want the last conversation he ever gets to have with his sister to be the fight they had months ago. Their plan is good; he’s at least mostly confident that it will all work out, but just in case it doesn’t, he’d like to leave things better than they are now. He's sure Jake would have given anything to tell Clarke that he loved her. 

“Hey O,” he greets quietly, smiling a little to himself, just getting to say her name again despite being met with the sound of her answering machine. “I know you want space, and I get it— well, actually no, I don’t, but I’m trying to respect it anyway.” He pauses on the front steps of the house, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. “I hope you’re good, that this is everything you wanted it to be. I hope you’re safe and I hope you’re happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. I love you.” 

An automated voice asks him if he’s satisfied with his message, and he quickly locks in his confirmation, moving towards the car and towards Clarke before the doubts can grab hold of him. 

“Everything okay?” Clarke asks as he slides into the seat beside her. 

He opens his mouth to assure her that he’s fine only to be distracted by the feel of his phone buzzing in his hand. Looking down, he quickly reads the unopened message with the hint of a smile on his face. Love you too, big brother. _Don’t do anything stupid._

Smiling one more time at his phone, Bellamy turns his attention back to Clarke. “Yeah, it’s all going to be great.”

*****

Against all odds, the optimism from before is still with him hours later as he and Clarke carefully creep into the Wallace mansion. The afternoon had passed quickly; they had one final meeting with Murphy and Raven to ensure that everything was still going according to plan and then spent the rest of the time finishing packing. There was something so exciting about the process of filling each of their bags with all their most important belongings ready, so they can leave the moment they can.

They have been together for a long time and practically living together for the last few months. They have talked about a future together, but it’s only as Clarke places her dad's old watch next to his favorite copy of the odyssey, ready to travel with them to wherever they go next, that he can actually see it as a reality. A few more hours and the life he’s always wanted can be his. 

Clarke slips the back door open, smiling at him in relief when no alarms go off, just as Dante assured them, before continuing into the house. She navigates through the halls with ease, passing rooms and stairs while he follows at a steady pace, thinking about what happens after. They need to meet up with Murphy and Raven one last time, and they need to ensure that the evidence they have set up lands in the right hands, but after that, it’s all endless possibilities. 

“Oh god,” Clarke breathes out, coming to a sudden stop in front of him only part of the way into the office, and Bellamy quickens his pace, cursing himself for letting her get ahead of him with muscles coiled tight. 

He burst into the room, the panic coursing through his veins, leaving no room for caution before stopping suddenly as the scene around them takes shape in his mind. The image in front of him finally fully registers in his frazzled brain, and then the terror inside of him turns to ice. He’s seen dead bodies before of both people he’s cared for and those he’s been forced to eliminate, he’s no stranger to blood, and yet, as his eye room over the blood splatters around Dante’s desk, he feels the remains of their hurried dinner threaten to leave his stomach. 

The feeling only increases when Clarke takes a cautious step closer to the mangled body, but he doesn’t let the urge take hold. Tightening his hand into a fist, he pushed the acid building in his throat back down and forces himself to get his shit together. This is a problem for them on so many different levels. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, but it sounds loud in the quiet of the empty mansion, echoing off the walls and coming back towards him. As he listens to his voice, fear once again takes hold. They thought they were alone; they have been moving through the space as though there were no threats, and that’s obviously not the case. His eyes move back to Clarke, close enough to reach out to touch the body, and that manages to spring him into action. “Clarke, what are you doing?” he asks, keeping his voice low and his ears open. “We need to go now. This changes everything. Someone must know what—” 

“It’s fine,” she tells him, eerily calm. 

Bellamy glances at the blood splatter on the wall again, more gruesome this close, and then quickly has to look away. “It’s really not. Whoever did this wasn’t messing around; we don’t want to—” 

“It was him.” 

“What? No,” Bellamy objects automatically, but even as he does, he can now see that she’s right. The proof is there in front of him, from the angle of the blood to the seemingly empty house, and he just didn’t want to see it. When he clutches his hand together again, closing his fist so tightly that he should be able to feel the dull edges of his nails biting into his skin, but he can’t. 

The world around him starts to spin as he remembers the wistful smile on Dante’s face when he bid them goodbye the night before. He’d known that there was something off about it; he should have done something, said something. 

“… looking at the wound, the shot couldn’t have come from anywhere else,” Clarke finishes her explanation, placing a gentle hand on his arm when it’s clear that he missed most of it. “Bellamy, are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he tells her softly, a shudder running down his spine. “I just— fuck. We should have seen this coming.” 

She looks at him with the horror he would expect in her eyes, but under that is a type of sad understanding that he doesn’t want to see. “We can’t save everyone,” she tells him, stroking her thumb against his arm, “and he wasn’t our responsibility either. 

“Maybe,” he agrees hesitantly, wanting to argue that he could have maybe saved him, but knowing they don’t have the time. Later, when everything is done, and they are free, he’ll take the time to examine and share the complex feelings of guilt coursing through him. For now, though, he needs to focus. “What now?” 

There's a beat of silence where she must come to the same realization as him that now isn’t the time, and then she shrugs. “Exactly what we planned before. There’s no reason to change anything now.” 

He can see the logic in her statement, but it also threatens the stability of his stomach. “You are suggesting that we burn him along with everything else?” he asks, just to make sure they are on the same page. 

“It’s only going to work in our favor for them to find a body among the ruins,” she says, 

“I know, it’s all— look, I know he’s dead, he doesn’t care, but it still feels wrong to burn his body to a crisp.” Bellamy looks at the body before quickly looking away. Logically, he knows that the man was responsible for terrible things, that he was a huge part of the problem that Bellamy has spent his life hating, but looking at now, he just seems so small and broken. He opens his mouth to share his opinion, willing to take the time for this where he wasn’t before, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

The distinctive sound of footfalls can be heard, slowly making their way through the main floor, only to be followed closely by the creak of a door opening. Bellamy’s eyes snap to Clarke’s, and he sees the same terrifying uncertainty that he’s sure is in his own gaze reflected back at him. No one might have been responsible for Dante’s death other than the man himself, but there’s no question now that they are now alone. 

Clarke brings a finger to her lips, silently reminding him to be silent as if he hadn’t come to the same conclusion as her, and then carefully starts to make her way towards the door. She doesn’t get far, however, before he grabs a hold of her arm, pinning her in place against his chest. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, whispering into her ear. She twists her head to look straight at him, her eyes telling him that the answer should be obvious, and it is, but he doesn’t know how she could think for one second that he’d be fine with her walking off into danger without him. 

“We have a job to do Bellamy,” she whispers back at him, her tone firm and detached even if he can still see the love in her eyes. “And to do that job, we need to leave this room. If there’s someone here, it makes more sense for me to go. I’m more familiar with this house than you; I’ll just slip around, place the detonators and meet you back at the car in five minutes. There are these secret passages—” 

“Indeed, there are.” In an instant, both Clarke and Bellamy have their guns pointed at Cage, but all he does is smirk in response, smoothing a hand against his suit and raising his own weapon. “Now, now, there’s no need for those. There’s no reason why this has to get violent.” 

Beside him, Clarke makes no motion to do as instructed, and neither does he. Instead, he waits for Clarke to make the first move, knowing that she’s better suited for playing these types of games. “You’re outnumbered, Cage, and outmatched. Put down the gun, and maybe we’ll let you walk away.” 

A burst of laughter bubbles out of Cage, and it’s clear at that moment, as he waves his gun around in the air with no regard for safety, that he’s unstable. Bellamy looks into his eyes, knowing what to look for this time, and is unsurprised to see the telltale shine of drugs. 

“She’s not messing around here,” Bellamy interjects, “and neither am I. Drop the gun, or I’ll shoot you straight to the ground, no regrets.” 

“No you won’t,” he quips back like the cocky asshole he is. 

“Try me.” 

“You won’t,” Cage repeats, ignoring Clarke completely, “because in the time it will take you to shot me, I’ll be able to take down at least one of you, and neither of you is going to risk the other.” He looks between them, and Bellamy knows that he’s right. He lowers his weapon to the ground slowly while Clarke does the same thing out of the corner of his eye, dread building in his stomach. “Love is such a pesky emotion, isn’t it?” 

“It’s not,” Clarke argues with a passion Bellamy’s not sure he could muster at the moment. “And you’d know that if you’ve ever felt it a day in your life.” 

Cage's eyes flash, and for a moment, Bellamy fears that Clarke has awakened some sort of beast, but just as quickly, the anger seems to evaporate. “What an interesting situation we find ourselves in,” Cage says in what can only be described as a drawl, looking back and forth between Clarke and Bellamy. Almost against his own will, Bellamy’s eyes flick towards Dante’s body still sitting in the corner, and Cage follows his gaze. His face twists up as he takes in the mangled body of his father. “Well, that’s unfortunate.” 

“We didn’t do this,” Bellamy hurries to explain. 

“Of course, you didn’t,” Cage responds with an eye roll, turning back to them. “You didn’t need to. He did it himself; the weak old fool, he couldn’t stomach it anymore. I should have removed him from the situation years ago, but well,” he looks between the two of them again with disgust this time, “sentimentally is hard to shake sometimes.” 

“You…” Bellamy starts to ask, eyes wide with realization before trailing off. 

“I was coming to kill my father; yes, indeed, I was,” he tells them without a trace of shame. “I should probably thank you for whatever you did to facilitate this, but I have to say I’m rather disappointed. I was going to enjoy seeing the look in his eye when he realized that after everything, the man that finally got to him was the son he thought was never going to amount to anything.” 

There’s a cruelty to the bitterness on his face while he contemplates the act that puts Bellamy even further on edge. He looks over at Clarke and sees the same concern reflected back at him. They need to get out of this and fast. If Cage is thirsting for murder today, as seems to be the case, him and Clarke are in a horrible position. 

“No, the only question is what to do with the two of you…”

Bellamy can see the split second that the decision to kill them settles in Cage’s mind, but it’s already too late. He’s racing against a clock that’s moving too fast. Time slows to a standstill, but that second-hand keeps ticking forward relentlessly. 

Cage raises his gun, muzzle pointed directly at Clarke, and it’s all Bellamy can do to step in front of her before the bullet hits its mark. 

There's a sharp stab of pain in his side, the ringing in his ears turns into a fever pitch. He can hear Clarke scream, a gun goes off again, and he tries to twist his body to make sure she’s okay, but he can’t; it’s like his body no longer belongs to him. 

When he hits the ground, the cold floor isn’t hard; it doesn’t hurt, not in the way he thinks that it’s supposed to. His eyes start to drift shut as a mass of blond hair fills his vision. He takes a deep breath, and it smells like home, love, and comfort. He tries to reach a hand up to grab hold of the image before him, but it’s no use. His arm is heavy, and the darkness is too tempting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for suicide: Bellamy and Clarke come across Dante's body and it's clear that he's responsible for the action.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally made it. A sincere thank you to every one who's followed along. I hope the ending is satisfying.

“Bellamy! Bellamy! I swear to god.” Clarke’s voice frantic in his ear, combined with her hands pushing painfully into his stomach, jolts him back into consciousness. His eyes snap back open, and he lets out a groan. “Thank god,” she says, placing one wet hand against the side of his face, “you scared the shit out of me.” 

He blinks in confusion a few times before the pain and wetness suddenly make sense. Staring at the red blood coating her hand, Bellamy has a moment of panic where he sees his entire life flash before his eyes. That anxiety for himself is quickly overturned, though, by concern for her when he sees the amount of blood surrounding them. 

“What happened?” he asks in a rush, attempting to sit up in a burst of strength before falling back with a pain-filled groan. He squeezes his eyes together, clenching his jaw in an effort to hide his agony, but it’s no use. Now that his attention has been drawn to it, it’s impossible to ignore the pain. The world starts to go black again, so he forces himself to open his eyes so he can see her at least one last time, and that’s when he notices the pool of blood around them, too much to just be from him. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” she starts to tell him, but all he can see now is the blood and the way her hands are shaking. 

“Oh god,” he gasps, his pain forgotten as panic unlike before overtakes him. He searches her body for injury, trying to find anything out of place as his hard beats painfully in his chest. 

“It’s not my blood,” she says quietly, and his eyes snap to hers, looking for confirmation. He finds it, but it doesn’t do a whole lot to lessen his concern. “He was getting ready to shoot, I could see it, but I hesitated for too long. By the time I went to press the trigger, he’d already done it, and you were moving and—” her breath hitches before she seems to regain her composer through pure force of will. “I am so sorry.” 

“Hey,” he whispers, fighting against the drooping of his eyes. “You did absolutely nothing wrong.” 

“If I didn’t—” 

“No, you have been the best thing this has ever happened to me. Walking into your clinic that day changed everything for me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“You’re going to be okay,” she promises him, but there’s an unmistakable waiver to her voice, and he can understand why. Now that the danger has passed, the weakness of his body is impossible to ignore. 

He’s had enough injuries in his life to know what ones are fine and which ones aren’t; which ones need medical treatment; which ones are so insignificant that there’s no reason to bother and which ones are so bad that it’s not worth bothering. The latter is undoubtedly true now. 

“Clarke,” he whispers softly, determined to use whatever strength he’s got left to make this as okay for her as he possibly can. 

“No,” she responds venomously, shaking her head as tears fall down her cheeks. 

Lifting a shaky hand up, he does his best to wipe away the tears. “You’re going to be okay.” 

“No,” she repeats, only this time there’s more determination than grief in her expression. “We are going to be fine. I’m going to get us out of here, and then I’ll fix you all up.” 

His heart breaks as he thinks about it all, about everything that he’s going to miss out on, but Bellamy promised himself a long time ago that he wasn’t going to be selfish with her, and he’s not going to start now. “No, you need to go place the rest of the charges and finish what we started.” 

“I’m not going to just leave you here!” 

“You have to,” he tells her with matching outrage. “Our fingerprints are all over this place, and there are now two dead bodies. If you leave it standing then you’ll either spend the rest of your life in prison for first-degree murder, or you’ll be on the run, neither of which are acceptable outcomes.” 

She bites her lip like she wants to argue, and in any other circumstance, he’s sure she would, but for now, all she does is let out a sigh. “Okay, come on, let’s go.” 

“Clarke,” he says again in the same tired voice because she has to know that that isn’t an option. He’s not even sure if he can walk, but he knows he won’t be able to make it through this entire house with her. 

“Fine,” she adjusts, “I’ll take you outside and then come back in and place the charges.” 

“There’s no time!” he practically shouts, desperation seizing him. There was always a certain amount of luck needed for this plan to work, but more than that, everything hinges on timing. The buildings need to all blow in close enough succession that no one has time to react and that all needs to happen now. Really, it probably needed to happen five minutes ago. 

“I will make time,” she declares fiercely, and Bellamy feels his frustration turn into sadness. 

“You are the most remarkable person I have ever met, Clarke Griffin, but even you don’t have the power to stop time.” 

“No,” she protests lightly now, clinging to his soaked shirt in a way that breaks his heart. He struggles to swallow past the lump in his throat, wishing desperately that she did have that power, that they could have more time as the gravity of the situation settles between them. It lingers between them for several long moments before determination fills her features. “No,” she repeats, sternly this time. 

“There’s no other—” 

She cuts him off with a glare, looking around the room like a woman on a mission. Her eyes lock on the curtain dangling innocently a few feet from them. “Okay, this is how this is going to happen,” she explains, ripping a strip of fabric from the curtain and then another. “You don’t get to die on me. I didn’t spend years in med school, learning how to treat injuries for you to die on me now.” 

Ignoring his protests and then his grimace of pain, she slides the pieces underneath his body and then ties them tightly over the wound, replacing the pressure of her hand. She twists the fabric, digging it painful into him before nodding in satisfaction and turning to him. “I am going to go place the charges because you’re right, we’ve come too far to stop now, but while I do that, you are going to make your way back to the door we came in.” 

He nods his head in understanding, following her lead as she pulls him into a sitting position. He’ll try; he’ll try for her even though every cell of his body just wants to go to stop and sleep, but she must see the doubt in his mind because she continues sternly. “I don’t care what you have to do; crawl, stumble, drag yourself, whatever it takes to get as close to the exit as you can, and then once I’m done, I’ll come to find you.” 

“No,” he says sharply, a second too late with his foggy brain. “You are not going to hang around in a building set to explode trying to drag my unconscious body out of it.” 

“I am not leaving you here, so get that thought out of your head,” she tells him in a flash of anger. “You don’t get to be a fucking martyr Bellamy. If you’re dying here, then I am too, and I don’t care how dramatic that may seem.” 

He can picture it, her body draped over him as the building explodes around them like they are characters in a Greek tragedy. The image makes him want to shake her, to yell at her until she understands that his life isn’t worth that, but as he stares into her eyes, so achingly familiar now, he knows that there would be no point. It breaks his heart to admit it, but she’s just as willing to die with him as he is with her. 

She stares back at him unflinchingly, and he feels resolve fill him; he can do this. That’s the power of love. She might be willing to die with him, but he’s determined to live for her. Meeting her eyes, he nods his head, and she nods back, leaning forward to press a quick kiss against his lips before grabbing their bag and running for the door. 

Taking a breath, he follows her lead, albeit much slower. Every footstep is a struggle, the hall seeming impossibly long when he finally reaches it and the stairs impossibly steep, but somehow, he keeps moving forward. By the time he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, his vision is blurred, his head is spinning, and he’s sure whatever makeshift bandage Clarke configured for him isn’t working to stop the bleeding any longer. 

With a grimace of pain, he attempts to get up only to once again fall to the floor, his breathing rough and irregular; his heart is stuttering in his chest. Sweat drips down his back, and he tries to focus on the pain coursing through him, fearing the weightlessness from before and what it signifies. Try as he might, though, it’s no use. His legs give out beneath him when he’s still way too far from the exit. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness, mind filled with visions of Clarke as he continuously struggles to pull himself forward despite knowing it's hopeless. He hopes blatantly in the back of his fog fill mind that Clarke’s self-preservation instincts kicked in while he what’s for the sound of explosives, but they never come. 

Fresh air hits his lungs, and it’s enough of a shock to his system to get his eyes open again. He takes in Clarke, determinedly supporting most of his weight as they move down the well-kept path with surprising speed. He blinks in confusion and then concern when he spots the house still standing proudly out of the corner of his eye. “You were supposed to,” he begins to reprimand before running out of air. 

“I did,” she promises. “Come on, we are almost there.” 

Ahead of them, he sees the truck come into view, and he’s suddenly thankful that they parked as closely as they did. They are almost there. She’s almost safe. The thought spurs him on, giving them both the last push they need to get to the vehicle. 

He flops into the passenger seat ungracefully, his head lolling dangerously to the side, and he struggles to make his limbs work, but Clarke’s got it. She shoves the rest of his body in and moves around to the driver's seat quickly as the sound of explosions starts to reach them. 

The sound continues in the background, but now he knows she’s out of danger, his ability to keep it together is dwindling. He presses his hand to the wound on his stomach and encounters a warm mass of wet fabric. His head falls back against the headrest, and his eyes once again drift shut. 

“Bellamy, don’t die on me,” he hears her beg as though she was miles away, but it’s enough for him to keep hold of. 

“I won’t,” he promises softly before slipping back into the darkness.

*****

“Look who’s finally waking up.”

“Really, Murphy?” 

“What? His hand just twitched; he’s very clearly waking up... ouch, what the fuck was that for?” 

Bellamy slowly blinks his eyes open, trying to fight through the fog of his brain to make it back to the world around him. Everything feels heavy, and his entire body hurts, but he embraces the pain as he did before, grateful for it and what it means; he didn’t die. 

“I didn’t die,” Bellamy whispers, surprise filling him. It’s not that he wanted to, or even that he expected to die necessarily, for so long, he just didn’t see a way out of this.

“Well, you don’t need to sound so surprised,” Clarke teases him, running a gentle hand down his face. “I know that it was a long time ago, and you had a lot on your mind that day, but we did meet because I’m a doctor. Saving people is kind of my thing.” 

When he finally manages to get his eyes open, the first thing that he sees is Clarke’s face smiling down at him, and it’s everything he could have asked for. He's alive; she’s alive. They did it, and now they can be free. 

The peace lasts for a fleeting moment before suddenly disappearing. Despite Bellamy's best attempts, he doesn’t really remember much after getting shot. There’s Clarke’s voice pleading in his ear, pain throbbing through his body like he’s never felt before, and then everything else is just hazy. He thinks that she blew up the building, but that could very well be his mind playing tricks on him. 

He looks around the room, realizing for the first time that they are back at the clinic. His eyes roam over the space, only stopping once they find the other occupants of the small room, and all thoughts of the success of their mission disappear as he takes in Raven leaning against the wall with her arm in a sling. 

“Oh god,” Bellamy mutters, trying to sit up to get a better look with limited success while his heart beats rapidly in his chest. It starts to slow when he sees that she’s fine except for the sling, but that doesn’t stop him from attempting to get off the bed and move towards her. 

“I’m fine,” Raven reassures him quickly, taking a step closer so that he can see her while still sitting in the bed. “It should be fine in a couple days; Clarke just had to pop it back in.” 

“She really is,” Murphy adds on helpfully. “She’s still able to hit me just as effectively as before.” 

“And don’t you forget it,” Raven tells him, nudging her uninjured shoulder against his. 

For all intents and purposes, she seems fine; she’s snarking back and forth with Murphy just as effectively as always, and yet he can’t seem to stop the guilt from settling over him. Raven wasn’t supposed to be in the action. Something must have happened to change plans, and if he had to guess that change was the result of his fuck up. 

“I checked her all out after you stopped bleeding on me,” Clarke promises him, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “Everything else is fine. Everyone else is fine. We did it, and we all made it out alive; we should be celebrating. 

“But—” 

“Bellamy, relax,” Raven tells him in that no-nonsense way of hers, “you’re the one in the hospital bed.” 

“Yeah, all the shit you gave us about being safe, not taking any unnecessary risks, and you step in front of a fucking bullet. It’s probably a good thing we are all getting out now; you’ve clearly lost your touch.” 

Looking behind him, Bellamy realizes that neither of them shared their plans for the future with Murphy. He meets her eyes, seeing his own sheepishness reflected back at him before finally turning back to the man in question. “Well, actually, about that—” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Murphy curses, evidently having seen their look. “If you two have somehow managed to uncover some other conspiracy theory, you can just keep it to yourselves for a few days because I’m not interested in fighting another war tomorrow, not even for the good of humanity.” 

He turns to leave with all the dramatic flair that Bellamy’s always known he’s had, making Raven groan, and Clarke let out a huff of laughter. For his part, Bellamy starts to worry that maybe they made the wrong call thinking that Murphy would want that. That doubt is almost enough to stop him, but in the end, he decides that Murphy should have that chance to choose for himself. 

“Hold on for a second, Murphy.” 

The young man rolls his eyes, but he stops his hasty retreat after a moment and turns back. “I’m seriously over tearing down crime empires.”

“Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear,” Clarke deadpans, taking over for him. “How would you feel about building one up, though?” 

“Isn’t that the exact opposite of what we spent the last four months trying to do?” 

On the surface, Murphy’s question is sarcastic, but underneath that, Bellamy can hear genuine interest, and that’s enough to remind him why he and Clarke thought this was a good idea in the first place. Even when Murphy pretends to not give a shit, he does. That is clear from the way he’s been hovering close to Raven from the moment Bellamy opened his eyes. 

“We needed to take it down because it was a corrupt system; the people at the top had been there for too long, so long that they forgot they’re human too,” Bellamy explains. “In a perfect world, that would be it. We did it, and now it is done; no more kids have to watch their parents stung out in the living room, and no random couple, out on a date, will get shot down just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but neither of us is naïve enough to believe that world could exist.” 

“I know I’m not,” Murphy responds with a smirk. “I thought you had embraced the Kool-Aid and decided that the world should be full of puppies and cotton candy.” 

“I don’t need the world to be perfect,” Bellamy says, lacing his fingers with Clarke. “I just need it to be better.” 

“And what?” Murphy asks, looking between the two of them before turning to Raven. “You both thought, hey what about Murphy; he’s got not some morals, why not. You are both more deranged than I thought; I'm not the guy who does better.” 

“You are exactly the right person to do better. You will do better... that is if you want to?” 

Clarke leaves the opportunity hanging in the air, and Murphy is silent for so long that Bellamy starts to consider just what they will do if he decides that he’s not interested. They could stay and run things themselves for a while until they can find someone they trust to take over. The peace of finishing starts to evaporate, and the weight settles back on his shoulders until finally, he lets out a sigh. 

“I think you’re making a mistake. In fact, I know you are making a mistake.” 

Murphy’s verminous dismissal seemed familiar from that start, but it’s only once Bellamy hears Clarke let out a tired sigh that it all starts to make sense. Murphy is him a year and a half ago, so convinced that he’s worth nothing that he can’t even hear people telling him the exact opposite. The idea breaks a piece within while also strengthening his resolve. 

“We aren’t,” he tells Murphy empathically. “As soon we realized that we needed someone to step up, you were instantly both our first choice. You have the drive to be successful enough that someone isn’t going to overtake you, but you also know where the line is and won’t cross it. You’ll be fair, and you’ll be kind. You’re the perfect person for the job.” 

“Well, when you put it like that,” Murphy says, over the top dramatic as is his custom, “I guess I’m your guy. I’ll do my best to not destroy the city. Or at least I won’t tell you if I do. I won’t,” he adds one when Raven nudges his side. “Goddammit, woman, I won’t be able to with you lurking over my shoulder like that.” 

“Exactly,” Raven tells him with a smirk. 

Bellamy watches the two of them with a sense of relief. Murphy accepted the job, and Raven seems eager enough to stick around and keep him in line, which means that he and Clarke are free. He looks over at her again, and she smiles so brightly back at him that he can barely even feel the lingering pain of his wound. 

“You good to go?” Bellamy asks Clarke, sliding off of the table slowly. At some point, they will have to clue Murphy into all the information they know, give him the tips and connections he needs to have a leg up, but that can come later. 

She looks around the clinic thoughtfully, her eyes taking in the space with enough emotion that if he didn’t know better, he’d be concerned she doesn’t want to leave it. As it is, they have talked it through more times than he can count, so he knows it’s nostalgia, not regret holding her back. She has a plan for this place, a friend from med school who’s eager to take it over. It will be in good hands, which is why she’s able to eventually grab ahold of his offered hand with a nod. 

“We can go take that,” Raven offers, watching the stiffness with which he moves warily. 

“No,” Bellamy rejects her offer softly, “We need to finish this ourselves. It’s so close to being over, and after all this time, I just—” 

“I get it,” Raven tells him with her own soft smile. “I guess this is it then.”

“Only for a while,” Clarke promises Raven, stepping forward to give her a hug before turning to Murphy beside her and wrapping her arms around him. He resists for a second, grumping about how he’s got an image to maintain now, but after the necessary complaints are out of the way, he holds her back tightly, squeezing tighter than even Raven. 

She must say something to him because the next thing Bellamy knows, he’s nodding his head and then taking a step back to look at him. “You know, I’ve been trying to get your job for years; if I had known that all it would take was you getting a girlfriend, I would have shot Atom myself a long time ago.” 

Bellamy shakes his head at the sarcasm, fighting off the temptation to say something just to prolong the moment. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he simply offers Murphy his hand to shake. It’s been a journey, with its bad moments for sure, but somehow along the way, the straggly boy who looked had him with distrust is now looking at him with something Bellamy’s willing to classify as sadness. 

He pats Murphy one more time on the shoulder, leans in to give Raven a gentle hug, and then retakes Clarke’s hand. There’s one more thing they have to do.

*****

“Hey!” Miller greets them as soon as they walk into the bar. “Bryan is just finishing shutting everything down in the back, but I can probably convince him to serve you guys a couple of drinks.”

“Hey,” Bellamy responds, moving towards his friend. Clarke moves to pull her hand away from his when they get to the stools, probably intending to sit, but he holds tight, suddenly strangely nervous. “If you could get Bryan, that would be great, but we can't stay.” 

“Mysterious, but okay,” Miller says, slipping off his stool and moving behind the bar without another word. Bellamy tightens his hand around Clarke’s, feeling the anticipation starting to get to him, but before she has a chance to remark on it, Miller is back with Bryan trailing closely behind him. “What’s up? Why does Bellamy look like he’s been to hell and back?” 

“Are we alone?” Clarke asks, seeming to sense that he needs her to take the lead on this. Bryan nods his head, and Bellamy lets out a breath. The reason they chose to do this here was because of an old and highly unreadable security system. If they are alone, that means no more hesitation. One more move, and they reach checkmate. “Okay then, in this folder is everything you need to arrest Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane along with all of their top associates.” 

Miller’s eyes widen slightly, but other than that, he has no other outward reaction, which leaves Bellamy feeling even more unnerved. He’s never made a huge effort to hide his other work from his friend, but he’s also never made it obvious. It really hasn’t mattered to him if his friend knew until he became an imperative part of their plan. For this to work, they need Bryan to trust them, and that’s going to be difficult if his boyfriend is pissed that his best friend spent the better part of a decade lying to him.

“How?” Bryan inquires, taking the folder and flipping through it. 

“There are bank statements, condemning emails, photos,” Bellamy lists off, forcing himself to focus on this part of it. “Basically, there’s enough there to get you an expedited warrant, and once you can get into the house and their computers, there’s more than enough to convict them.” 

“You’re right,” Bryan answers, closing the folder and eying them carefully. “I’m assuming you need me to keep your names out of this?” 

“It would make our lives, particularly my life, easier,” Clarke says in the way that they practiced. “But say what you need to say to make them take this seriously. I’m hoping that the evidence is enough, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to put them away.” 

Bryan nods his head and then walks back into the back, already pulling his phone out of his pocket just as they had hoped. 

“This isn’t going to fuck him over, right?” Miller asks him suddenly, not threateningly, but with an edge to his voice that Bellamy knows means that he isn’t messing around. 

“No,” Bellamy hurries to assure him. “I wouldn’t do that. Every bit of evidence in the folder is 100 percent real.” 

“But when they get the warrant and search the place, there’s conveniently going to be nothing questionable with you two involved.” 

“There actually isn’t,” Bellamy says, continuing on at Miller’s snort of disbelief. “This was the plan from the start, so we were both very careful not to get involved in anything questionable. The only way our names would be in there is if they somehow planted something to make us look guilty. Fuck,” Bellamy curses as he thinks it through. He turns quickly to Clarke. “You don’t think—” 

“No, they wouldn’t have had time. Tonight, they would have been running wild, and I had Raven check before then.” 

“Okay,” Bellamy says in relief, squeezing her hand in thanks for thinking of it before now. 

“Are they actually guilty?” Miller asks suddenly, instantly shifting Bellamy’s focus back to him. 

“Yes,” Clarke says after a moment. “Of way more than is in that folder, but the law only holds people accountable for so much.” 

“Okay, that’s good enough for me,” Miller finally responds with a shrug. Silence falls around them, disturbed only by the sound of Bryan on the phone until Miller lets out a sigh and continues. “I’m guessing you two are going to disappear for a while?” 

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, feeling slightly sad for the first time about their imminent departure. They don’t have to leave; they made sure to cover their tracks carefully, and Raven ensured that they all have an alibi for when it all went down tonight. They aren’t going to be chased away by anything other than reporters, but it’s still time for them to go. “I’ll call though, you can come to visit when we get settled.” 

Miller is undoubtedly going to say something back, probably some wisecrack about him settling down if the grin on his face is anything to go by, but Bryan returns before he has the chance and any thoughts of jokes disappear. 

“I’m going down to the station. They want to see the evidence for themselves, but everything looks good. They seem ready to go,” he explains in a rush. “I need you to come too, Nate. I told them that you found it lying on the bar top when you came back from the bathroom while I was in the back.” 

“Bye for now then,” Miller says, pulling Bellamy isn’t a hug. “I’ll let you know what happens.” 

He offers Clarke a quick farewell as well, and then the two of them have their jackets on and are out the door with Bellamy and Clarke close behind them. 

By some unspoken agreement, they make their way back to his apartment building, walking hand in and through the doors as they have so many times before, but this time they continue up the stairs until they come to the roof. They wait there amongst the bright stars and chilly wind, huddled closely together until finally, just as the sun starts to peek over the horizon Bellamy's phone buzzes with the confirmation they have been waiting for. 

It’s done. 

One tiny, simple message, and the entire world opens up for him. He turns his phone, allowing Clarke to see the message from Miller. She lets out an almost unperceivable exhale of relief. They did it. 

He takes another breath, the air tasting sweet as honey on his tongue, and rises to his feet. Once again, they pass the door to his apartment hand in hand, but they don’t stop. It’s not really even his apartment anymore. He said goodbye to the place weeks ago, thanking it for being the safe haven he and so many other people need, and then didn’t look back. He does look back now either. 

The life he had there is gone, but his future is filled with so much hope he doesn’t even want to look back. 

“So,” Clarke says, shutting the truck door and shifting so that she’s more comfortable in her seat. “As far as I know, this car can’t fly, and the sun is rising not setting, but…” 

It takes him a second through the exhaustion of a sleepless night and the pain still throbbing in his abdomen to remember his thoughts that first day, but once he does, the smile on his face gets almost impossibly brighter. “But you were right.” 

“I didn’t say that,” she tells him with a grin, full of life and happiness in a way he hasn’t seen since before Jasper died. 

“But you were thinking about it.” 

She shrugs innocently. “I’m just saying, for a guy that was so certain he couldn’t get the happily ever after with the girl, you seem to be getting exactly that.” 

“I guess I lucked out then,” he tells her, saying screw it to the stitches in his side and leaning over to kiss her softly. 

Part of him expects her to chide him, but that would be the doctor in her, and right now, the woman in love seems to be winning out. She cups her hand around her face, holding onto him as she has done since he woke up in the clinic like she’s afraid to let him go. The fear will pass, he's sure, for both of them, but for now, he’s content to let his side burn if it makes her feel better. 

Just as the thought passes through his mind, though, she seems to regain her pragmatic self, pulling away from him and settling back in her own seat. “Be careful; you’re going to rip the stitches.” 

He shakes his head lightly, overjoyed at who well he seems to know her, and puts the key into the ignition. The truck roars to life, his trusty companion, and Bellamy pulls out onto the road. 

“What do we do now?” Clarke asks as the apartment building disappears into the distance. 

“Whatever the hell we want.” 

Clarke smiles back at him, and he can see the matching hope in her eyes. He can feel the love she has for him radiating off of her, and it makes the future seem even brighter. “So, are we heading out west to visit Monty and Harper or catching a plane to try and track down O and Lincoln?” 

He laughs, once again amazed at just how well she knows him. His entire life has been dedicated to protecting those he loves, and even though that role is thankfully over, his family is always going to be where he wants to be most. 

“Luck didn’t have anything to do with it,” Clarke explains softly, taking his free hand. “You were never the horrible person that you thought you were. You deserve to have the happy ending just as much as I do.” 

The same feeling of inadequacy fills him at her declaration, but it’s smaller now, easier to ignore because she’s right. Despite all the odds, he’s here with her while the city that he once thought would be his eternal prison disappears into nothing, and he could be happier. He’s finally got the life he’s always wanted, and he’s not going to waste a second of it weighed down by his past.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the comments, I love reading them. You can find me over on [tumblr](https://the-words-in-my-head-12.tumblr.com/post/631251983659040768/walk-the-line-bellamy-had-accepted-his-lot-in) of you want to say hi. 
> 
> Updates on Tuesday and Saturday.


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